


Inescapable

by Dissonance



Series: The Long-term Effects of Possession [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Abusive Friendship, Angst, Bargaining, Blackmail, Dark fic, Demon Deals, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Hurt Stiles, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Kitsunes, Lots of Murder, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicidal actions, Suicide Attempts, Temporary Character Death, forced murder, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-05
Updated: 2018-10-14
Packaged: 2019-03-27 08:52:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 53,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13877460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dissonance/pseuds/Dissonance
Summary: They never believed Stiles when he told them of his dreams, claiming it was trauma, paranoia. But, after a suicide attempt and a string of gruesome murders, paranoia only seemed to be the beginning.[ continuation of unavoidable, can be read separately ]





	1. Solitude

**Author's Note:**

> decided to continue this solely because like three people asked for it and again, i love this kind of stuff

"Get away from me!" Stiles screamed, hands over his ears. He was curled in on himself, eyes clenched shut as he tried his best to pretend the Nogitsune wasn't there, like he couldn't feel the spirit's hot breath on his face, or between glances see his own face staring back at him with malice and amusement, so not him but so him all at the same time.

"We'll kill all of them," It whispered in his voice, too close, with words he'd heard before. But, just as he could feel it's grasp tightening, Stiles heard it's footsteps fading away off into the distance. He breathed slowly for a second, expecting the worst, but there was nothing. It was gone. It was _gone._ That had never happened before.

Almost immediately as Stiles looked up, the Nogitsune's hand - his hand - grabbed him around the chin, not necessarily a strangling grip, but enough to make them stare into each other's gazes. It was his eyes, yeah, but just so, so wrong. So lifeless and still, but crazed and scarily unhinged at the same time. He tried to move his head out of the way, but it was fruitless. The creature exhibited strength Stiles could only ever dream of, and it was unable to be fazed.

"All of them," It repeated, a grin spreading on it's face as it spit each word. "One by one."

 

 

Stiles awoke with a gasp. The gentle beeping of the heart monitor had gone up to rapid- the quick paced beeps sent needles straight into his brain. It was the only thing he could hear at first, the only thing he could feel was real. His eyes were open but all he could see was an unchanging shade of black. His breaths came in a second at a time, quick and short, and he couldn't stop it. He couldn't see, _he couldn't see_ , where was he?

Then, he felt the cold, gauze-wrapped grasp of the Nogitsune, and a scream of tore from his lips-

The colors then snapped in, reality finally taking hold. He was in a hospital room. The beeping was still there, a universal in his delusions. He lied back down against the soft, bitter-smelling pillow, eyes open and basking in the real world. Leaning over him was a nurse- no, not just a nurse, Scott's mom. Her soft, warm hand was lying on top of one of his arms, both wrapped tightly with stark white bandages.

Her oh so motherly eyes were filled with concern and a certain sadness he remembered spotting in Scott's back on the roof. A kind of sadness you only experience when a loved one dies, but unfortunately, this love one hadn't died. Close. But not close enough.

"Stiles," Came her voice, cautious and wary of his state of mind. He didn't blame her, it's not like he hadn't killed her son's first girlfriend and just nearly murdered her. "Calm down, and get some rest, okay?"

Stiles nodded, but refused to go back to sleep. He didn't want to go back to the Nogitsune, but he also didn't want to be in a hospital bed with someone he cared about walking on eggshells around him. He shook his head, narrowing his eyes. "I saw it," He admitted slowly, locking onto her worried gaze. "It's here."

"No, it's gone. You and Scott and the rest of you kids got rid of it, okay? You're safe now." She placed a soothing hand on his shoulder, but Stiles bucked away- he poisoned her, he didn't deserve her care or love. 

"No, it's here," He muttered senselessly back, feeling his speech grow slower, slurring at the edges. He almost didn't spot Melissa with the syringe- the same sedative she'd used on him before the Nogitsune took over. If even possible, his eyes grew wider and he started fighting, memories of screaming at the workers of the Eichen House that he couldn't sleep, he couldn't fall unconscious or else, all rushing into his brain as he repeated those actions. Before he knew it, more nurses came into the room, shouting  
indistinctly at Melissa, their hands on his arms and legs, trying to keep him from moving, trying to make him sleep, and he couldn't let it happen no matter what-

He felt a prick in his shoulder, and the dull pain of something rushing into his bloodstream.

He couldn't even mouth a no as his eyelids grew heavier, his thrashing becoming less violent and weaker. The hands of the hospital staff began to retreat as the sedative worked it's effect.

 

 

The gentle beeping of the heart monitor was the only thing he could bring himself to hear. It drove him insane, the steady, slow beeping driving needles into his skull. He pretended to be asleep, but it was hard, timing each breath right to fit with unconsciousness while a werewolf with super senses sat next to you, his hand in your hand. Trying to take away your pain.

Stiles never really took the time to realize how strong his and Scott's relationship was. They were practically brothers, and even when Stiles was full-blown Nogitsune, through chaos, pain, and strife, the alpha didn't give up. Even when he was standing, a disgusting mess of a person, on the roof of the hospital with a gun to his head, Scott never gave up. It hurt to think about, almost physically. How could he kill other people, other people he loved, and still be deemed worthy by such a great person? It was unfair, but Scott was ignorant. Too ignorant for his own good.

"So, are they gonna send me back to Eichen House?" Stiles spoke, breaking the melancholy silence of the room. His voice was dull, so unlike his own but not as much as the Nogitsune's was. "Lock me up again?" He pulled his hand from Scott's, and could feel the stinging from his arms return, the hurt gaze of his best friend digging into his closed eyes.

"No," Scott's voice was earnest and slightly muddled, like he'd been crying. Yeah, he'd probably been crying. "No, they've decided to let you stay at your dad's, under uh, _supervision._ " He cleared his throat. "By me, and Derek."

Stiles nodded tensely. That'd be fun. Sourwolf and the Boy Who Cared in his room twenty-four-seven. Just peachy. He wondered what Derek was doing now, what he was thinking. A part of his brain told him Derek didn't care.

"And uh, we have to get rid of anything, you know, harmful." Stiles supressed a laugh at that one. Of course. "Just so, you know.."

"Yeah, I know." Stiles cut in, letting a sigh escape his lips. This was so stupid - they were all so stupid. "I fully understand." Did they understand, understand why he'd done what he'd done? "You made a mistake, Scott," He murmured letting his eyes open. The harsh light and lack of natural sun leaking in from the windows indicated it night, at least enough for the stars to shine. Probably decently late, if Stiles's messy sleeping schedule was anything to go by.

"I didn't make a mistake." He stated simply, tone hard. Stiles could tell he believed he was telling the truth, just from his steely gaze to confident body posture. He sighed once more, feeling like that would become even more of a habit than it already was. 

"Scott, just.." Yet another sigh. He sat up a bit, frowning slightly at the discomfort steming from his arms. Stupidly, he felt like crying, but he managed to stop it before it happened. That was the one thing he was getting good at, and he wouldn't do it again in front of Scott. He knew he would get all protective again, but he really didn't deserve that kind of care after all the things he'd done.

"You don't need to apologize, Stiles." The alpha murmured, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "It wasn't your fault."

He tried not to deny it.

 

 

They finally let him leave the hospital.

To be frank, he'd only been there three days, not the longest time, but it still felt like an eternity. All the stares of the hospital staff as they passed him, checked his vitals. It was even worse when they re-wrapped his arms. Those people, who he probably stole friends and family from, were pitying him. It was absolutely insane, but it wasn't like they knew. That kind of information was under wraps, and if it wasn't he probably would've been in jail. A place he really didn't want to go to. They'd try him as an adult and he'd probably go there for life, but he could still hurt people inside the place. Criminals or not, they were still people. Hell, some people were probably in just for stealing something minor, maybe some petty high-school fight, nothing huge. They definitely didn't deserve to die - people made mistakes all the time. They were all human.

Stiles could almost hear Scott's reply to his thoughts- _You're human too._ The problem was, he wasn't. He didn't feel human, not since the Nogitsune possessed him. He felt all wrong, and that simple wrongness has sent him up to the roof that night with all those items of destruction. Everything had been confiscated, the knives, the gun, the ample bottles of unnamed, out-of-date pills stolen from his medicine cabinet. Even his jeep. He wasn't allowed to drive, probably because if he had the chance he'd crash it into a tree, or maybe the Eichen House gates, let everything come full circle. It was always fun to tie loose ends.

But yeah, he wasn't allowed to drive. So, guess who had to drive him to his house? Not Scott's mom, no, that'd be too easy. Scott? He didn't know how to drive. His own father was too much of a mess to come pick him up. So, it ended up being Derek in his shiny black car, pulled up onto the hospital pick up-space. Like always, he was leaning on the door with his arms crossed, that bitter expression always settled on his face. Stiles felt his cold, green gaze on him as they exited the hospital doors, Scott walking shoulder to shoulder with him. The same, ugly shame that he'd felt on the rooftop curled up around his heart and squeezed, sending it beating into a frenzy. He couldn't relieve it this time, and it only made it worse than he knew Derek could hear his heartbeat.

As they approached, he dimly heard Derek shifting in his spot, standing up to expose the front door. Stiles looked up tentatively, before glancing down after realizing Derek was making his way around the car, to open the passenger door for him. He swallowed thickly, shaking his head no to no one directly before hopping in the back seat and shutting the door.

He let out a sigh of relief, the soft silence and comforting hum of the engine sending waves of fatigue through his tired bones. He hadn't realized he was so drained until then, but in the back of his head those voices spoke up again - you can't sleep, _you can't sleep_ , you can't let yourself be vulnerable.. then they faded away, and like every good thing out there, it didn't last. Scott climbed into the passenger seat where Stiles had originally been supposed to go, abruptly shattering his small world of peace and solitude. He could hear the soft, despondent exhales of his best friend, and the dishearteningly hard to read mumbles of the older wolf. He felt his own pride and dignity trickle down his back to hide, and he told himself to suck it up. It didn't matter if he was tired, he could not go back to sleep, no matter what. The best he'd get was resting his head against the cool window, trying to withstand the bumps of the road as Derek pulled out of the parking lot.

A sick part of Stiles hoped someone would ram into his side of the car. The sane part told him Derek and Scott could get hurt too. But, the crazy part seemed to sound so very sane at the moment. Anything to end the silence of the ride sooner.

Stiles flinched as a large droplet of water slapped against the window mere centimeters from his head. He glanced up, and saw smaller ones follow suit, the slapping noises multiplying as it started to rain. It started to _rain_. The desolate humor of the situation plucked at his heartstrings, and he almost laughed. Of course it'd rain. Like any movie out there, if someone's remotely sad it'll rain. All they needed now was someone to cry a single tear and turn on the radio for some sad song to better reflect the mood.

"Hey, Stiles," Like the raindrop, he couldn't help the flinch that followed Derek's voice, breaking through the soft pattering of rain. His tone was soft, like Scott's was in the hospital, but it was much weirder on Derek. Very unfitting. "How do you feel?"

Already, Stiles wanted the conversation to be over. His bit his lip, balling his fists by his sides. How did he feel? "Fine," he lied, voice quiet. In reality, he felt like shit. He was so tired, and his body ached, shivers racing through his joints as they wished for rest. 

"Fine?" Derek spat, usually static-tuned voice turning to hysterical in a matter of seconds. Stiles shook his head at the overreaction, trying to redirect his attention back toward the road, the passing cars splattered with rain giving him an odd kind of solace. He distantly heard Scott say something to Derek about calming down, but the guy didn't listen. "God, you're not fine, you-"

"I know what I did." Stiles stated slowly, watching someone's lights in a straight edged, grey-twinged honda cut through the downpour like it didn't even exist. "And I stand by it."

A very.. frustrated noise came from Derek this time, and Scott's shock from the statement made itself known in the form of a sharp inhale. Stiles tried not to pay attention, eyes on the dark, shifting clouds up in the sky, masking the usually bright and hopeful stars that would normally bring him comfort in these times of need. The moon was hidden behind the clouds, too, and dimly Stiles wondered when the next full one would be. Maybe then he'd be able to escape from his supervisors' watchful eyes, but only time would tell. The only thing he knew was that he was not going to last much longer alive, and the thought replaced the role of the stars. He'd somehow find a way to stop himself from hurting anyone else, and he'd take that over the stars any day.

 

 

Right when he stepped out of the car, his father's arms were around him, holding on incredibly tight as if Stiles would disintegrate the moment he let up. The air was knocked out of his chest, and tiredly he mumbled a greeting, maybe some apologies. He loved his dad, he really did, but he didn't know if the man could take it if Stiles told him how he really felt, how an apology didn't really seem fitting.

"I thought I'd lost you again," The sheriff murmured weakly, and Stiles wrapped his own bandaged arms around him, shoving his nose in the man's wrinkled uniform. It smelled like home, and he breathed it in, feeling his chest started to feel that familiar heaviness that indicated he was close to tears. He began to let go, still very aware of Derek and Scott standing awkwardly on the lawn. "I love you, son, you know that?"

Stiles let his arms drop to his sides, and his dad leaned up, and their eyes met. He seemed to have a few more grey hairs than Stiles remembered. "I know, dad," He answered, guilt and remorse starting to build up in his throat, making it harder to swallow. "I love you too." He never meant to make his father cry, be sad, or anything like that. He'd been trying to save him, but now even the thought of trying it again hurt to think about. Scott's words from the room came back to him- _How's your dad going to feel when he loses his son?_

His father's hands ran down Stiles's back, instinctually checking to see if he was all in one piece. Then, his arms, and at the place where his skin turned to bandages, he felt him tense.

Stiles shook his head, pulling his hands away and wiping his eyes with an arm. He hoped he didn't have to talk about it, and that Mrs. McCall explained everything already. He couldn't take the awkwardness, the misplaced guilt, the overall sorrow for in any way hurting his dad.

"Okay, now, you gotta get some rest," His dad said, and Stiles glanced up, meeting the man's glistening eyes. Oh yeah, that hurt real bad, right in the heart. "You hear me? Sleep, Stiles. You deserve it, you _need_ it."

Stiles nodded limply, muttering another sorry before following his father into the house. He heard Derek and Scott behind him, and quietly prayed that they would just disappear. He didn't want to make any of this harder than it should've been, and having those two werewolves guard him twenty-four-seven for who knows how long was just unnecessary and annoying. He watched his father head over to the side, making room for them to walk toward the stairs. Then, Stiles noticed all the knives previously visible in the kitchen were gone, hidden someplace he'd probably never find, at least not with his "supervisors" on his tail.

Sighing and ultimately deciding to think about all of that later, Stiles made his way toward the stairs, climbing them at the most normal of paces he could muster. He stepped into his room, closed the door - his two tagalongs didn't say anything against it - and when he flicked on the light he frowned at the sight of it neatly ransacked.

Anything that could possibly cause harm was gone. Everything. He felt like throwing himself out the window, but when he tried to open it, he found it permanently shut.

"What are you doing?" Came Derek's sharp voice from the hallway, and Stiles stilled, taking his hand away from the glass.

"It's hot in here," He murmured, putting on a mock tone of discomfort. "Just trying to get a little air." He waited momentarily for a response, and when he realized the sourwolf was done conversing, he clicked his tongue and continued the inspection of his room.

His bed was pushed a few inches to the side for reasons unknown, and his laptop was gone off his desk. Everything on his wall that was previously put up by tacks were now just taped to it, some slightly askew from whoever had been putting them up's hurried job. Stiles frowned - this was beyond crazy. What could he really do with a fucking tack? Nothing. He couldn't do anything with a tack.

Sighing, Stiles threw himself onto his bed. He hit the mattress with a thump and a groan, the pillow under his head urging him to sleep. He kept his eyes open, staring listlessly at the ceiling. Then, he turned his head to the side, spotting the digital clock and it's bright red numbers, and the date.

Monday, 12:07 am.

Another groan left Stiles's mouth as he imagined all the stares he'd get. It wasn't like Beacon Hills was the largest of towns - word traveled fast, especially when some kid tried to kill himself. No, especially when the _Sheriff's_ kid tried to kill himself.

"Hey, do I have to go to school tomorrow?" Stiles asked tentatively, praying to god for a no.

Miraculously, god listened. "No," Came Scott's voice, small and nearly as cautious as Stiles's. "Not until next Monday, but uh, I'll be going. So I'll be gone during the day." 

There was a catch to the miracle. Scott, gone? For seven hours a day? Leaving him with Derek, and only Derek, for that amount of time?

Stiles wished for death.


	2. Sanity

The lights in Stiles's bedroom are off two hours after they arrived, and no outward noise resounds in the silence. It's still, but too still. Derek's eyes flicked to the bed, where the human they all knew and loved was lying, motionless despite the rise and fall of his chest.

The floorboards creaked under his feet as he crept closer to the figure, watching and counting seconds in between each breath. Irregular, forced. His heartbeat was too fast. A frown settled on his face - Stiles was awake, maybe more awake than he had been two hours prior. Awake and faking unconsciousness.

Derek exited the room, fingers curling around the door handle before closing it softly. Even he was surprised by his gentleness as he walked back to Scott's prone form down the hall. Unlike Stiles, the fellow alpha was actually sleeping - heartbeat slow and relaxed, jacket splayed over his limbs as he rested. Derek's own heart ached slightly at the sight of him. He'd practically begged him to go into the guest room next to Stiles's, but the boy refused. Apparently he was afraid of being locked in there, unable to get out to stop something from going on. Which, to be fair, had happened before.

"Scott," Derek breathed, nudging the younger boy with his foot. "Get up."

He awoke with a small yawn, eyes fluttering open as colors faded in. Realization flashed over his features for a second, before the expression was overtaken by somewhat of a pout. He'd forgotten what'd happened for a second, then. "What?" He mumbled almost incoherently, pushing his poor excuse of a blanket aside to rub his eyes. "Is it my turn to take watch?"

Slight amusement ran through Derek. "No," he answered quietly, crossing his arms and looking away from the alpha.

"Then what is it?" Scott asked, finally taking a hold of his bearings. He settled into a more practical position against the wall, trying to bring himself back into the land of the living.

Derek listened for a moment, and now that he was out of the room, Stiles wasn't even making an effort in pretending to be asleep. His heartbeat was slower but was still at an unnatural pace, and he seemed to be mumbling nothings to himself. A certain knot-shaped worry Derek hadn't felt much before the incident squeezed his chest, but he dismissed it. "He's not sleeping," He finally spoke, and heard some of that pesky concern leaking into his voice without his permission. He cleared his throat. "Hasn't been."

Scott sighed, and Derek closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the wall. "I thought everything was fine after we trapped the Nogitsune," He admitted slowly, voice still groggy from sleep. "Yeah, people had said stuff about mental consequences before but I never really gave it much thought." He took in a deep breath. "Didn't seem possible, you know? With someone as, as lively and optimistic as Stiles it didn't seem like it could happen. The way he acted when we finally beat it, he seemed happy, fine-"

"He seemed fine," Derek interrupted, eyeing the alpha out of the corner of his eye. "He thought he'd come off mentally unburdened, too, Scott. Then he found out about Allison, and Aiden, and everyone else." He shook his head at the thought of those two - just kids, dead. He understood Stiles's feelings about that. "It just probably got worse from there on."

"And it led to this," Scott muttered, voice hitched. He crossed his arms. "I just can't believe he thinks he's doing what's right. It's not right, not at all."

"No, it's not." He agreed. He vividly remembered the horrible wrongness of it all, the scene unfolding before him. And before he knew it, he was back at that fateful night.

 

He could smell the blood, but couldn't bring himself to focus on whose it was. His chest heaved but from something other than exhaustion as he practically flew up the stairs. Scott's words rang in his ears like the ringing after a bomb. _I think Stiles is going to do something, something bad,_ he'd said almost breathlessly. Derek had received the text from Stiles before - _meet me at the hospital's parking lot_ , and thought it was odd, but never actually considered going to meet him, since he had other things to do. Besides, he'd never accepted or even received a request like that from Stiles before, so why act on that one now? But then, Scott had called, and everything was turned up on it's head, leading Derek to now, frantically racing toward the roof with only the worst outcomes on his mind.

Somehow, the thought of Stiles's still, even paler than normal and lifeless body sent him wracking with some sort of dreadful grief he'd never felt before. It pulled down on his heart like someone took it in their hands and squeezed it. Stiles was the glue of their pack - a human, yes, but still very much family, at least how family the pack got. Really, he was the only thing that kept them sane - his constant joking and babbling about something or other was annoying at times, yes, but during and after the Nogitsune took over him, they realized how much they needed him. How big his impact was, and without him, something was missing.

In those moments before reaching the door, Derek told himself he should've noticed. He watched over Stiles for a good week after they'd defeated the Nogitsune, just to make sure it was really gone, going on the verge of stalking one night when he'd seen Stiles purchase a knife. But, when the human had arrived home and tucked the weapon into a drawer, Derek had dismissed it as nothing. Now, though..

The door flew open, slamming on the exposed concrete wall from the sheer force of his blow. His ears were tuned to the sound of incoming police sirens and the howling of the wind, and he was struck with the strong odor of blood. It was everywhere, and the metallic scent somehow managed to convert itself into a taste. He knew immediately where it came from, too - Stiles. It was human blood, and far too much of it.

His eyes searched the area in a frenzy for the source, his heart skipping a beat at the sight of a gun laying still next to a bag, and thousands of means of self-destruction spilling out of it. Dimly, he saw the knife Stiles had bought previously, and he tried to deny the sight, but the meaning was painfully obvious.

He finally spotted the two figures near the edge of the roof. The blood he'd sensed before was splattering the gray cement, coating it thickly in a line from the roof's edge over to the two silhouettes. Derek's eyes widened when he noticed Scott, shouting toward him with tears streaming down his face, an absolute mess. How had he not heard it earlier?

Forgetting his pride, Derek rushed forward, skidding to a halt near them before kneeling next to his fellow alpha and feeling his knees soak with blood. He managed to null his frown as he looked at Scott with urgency and a controlled, serious calm.

"He's- he's-"

Derek hadn't even noticed Stiles's prone form collapsed into Scott's chest. He was small, smaller than he remembered. His face was smeared with his own blood and tears, and his eyes were closed, under eyes a dark shade of a purplely red bruise. Derek had seen someone sleep deprived before, but that was totally unnatural. His skin was paler than it had ever been, scarily similar to Derek's delusions earlier. His arms were wrapped limply around Scott's chest, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his skinny forearms covered in- were covered in-

No.

Alarm spread through Derek as it all clicked - the gun, the knife, the pills and ropes and suspiciously bomb-looking materials scattered out of the green bag lying near the roof's edge. The blood, the text, Stiles's odd behavior after they'd trapped the Nogitsune.

It all made sense.

Then, with another strangled, half-sob from Scott, he realized Stiles was thoroughly unconscious, and definitely not breathing.

If not already gone before, his senses completely dissipated - everything was met with a dull, ringing silence. He was barely aware of his actions, moving to throw Stiles bodily into his arms as he raced through the roof door, jumping down the stairs and screaming things like _help_! and _he's not breathing_! Mundane life or death statements, but he couldn't focus on making them anymore creative - he distantly felt how light the human was in his arms, with Scott screaming behind him, people taking said light human from him. He didn't even realize how much blood was soaking into his clothes, wet and red and smelling terribly like Stiles.

Scarily, he'd felt his gaze grow dizzy, knees buckling as he was sent falling backward. The only thing that saved him from hitting the floor was Scott, holding him up and pulling him toward a chair. He'd never fainted over anyone, or almost fainted, or anything, so something was wrong. He dimly watched Scott's mother rush up to them, eyes wild as she frantically looked back and forth from them and where they were wheeling Stiles away. She walked up to Derek, concerned albeit cautious, her hands up as she said something to him. No noise came out of her mouth. Then, it was Scott, shouting something at him he couldn't understand, pulling him out of his- his-

_Delusion._

"Hey, Derek?" Came Scott's voice, raw and soft in the soundless atmosphere. "Derek?"

"Yeah?" He responded groggily, attempting to play off his blackout, his flashback. He cleared his throat.

Scott leaned back against the wall with a breath, curling his fingers around the edge of his jacket, pulling it to the side. "Oh, um, nothing. You were just kinda. Staring." He cleared his throat. "You, uh, just looked kinda distant. Not here."

He nodded slowly. "Oh, yeah, I was just, just thinking," He murmured, adjusting his posture. "You've known Stiles for a hell of a long time, much longer than me."

Scott stayed silent for a second, before responding, "And?"

"Has this ever happened before? Any sort of, uh, signs or anything like that?"

"What do you mean?"

Derek sighed, bringing a hand up to rub at his face. He wished that the Nogitsune had never come to Beacon Hills, stolen Stiles's body and forced him to commit horrific acts he would never forget. He hoped that in Stiles's past, there was some sort of red flag that something like the roof incident could happen, and it wasn't just because of the damned spirit, because they couldn't rid Stiles of it in time. But, even before Scott said anything, something told him that wasn't what happened.

"No, Stiles hasn't had anything like this in the past. He was always up and moving, smiling. Even after his mom died, I mean, he grieved like a normal person, we all did." He exhaled slowly. "But nothing like this."

Anger started to boil in his chest. He felt the intense need to beat that spirit into nothing but red mush for what it had caused, what it had done. Killed Allison, killed Aiden. Two kids. And making Stiles blame himself to a point where he felt like he could've stopped it. There was nothing Stiles could've done, especially after the vessel and the spirit were separated. 

Glancing toward Stiles's bedroom door, that murderous need shifted to something else - an urge to assure the human that it was not his fault. Tell him he should sleep. Care about him, deeply. But Derek didn't care about Stiles, no. This was just a favor towards Scott. He most definitely didn't care that much.

 

\---

 

"See you later, Stiles!"

Stiles watched forlornly as Scott pushed past the door, slinging his backpack over his shoulder before he rushed out into the yard. He could just barely see the shiny black of Derek's car outside through the window, exhaust particularly visible in the cool morning air. He revved his engine once, twice, before they took off.

Stiles didn't ever remember Scott being so buddy buddy with Derek. In fact, he remembered them butting heads, a whole lot, and not in any friendly way. Now, though, it seemed Derek was willing to do anything for Scott- even drive him to school. Before, even the suggestion of that would send the man into a frenzy of laughter at how absurd the thought was.

Odd, but times changed. Everything changed eventually. Everything, everybody.

Stiles scratched at the bandages over his arms.

"Hey uh, Stiles, are you okay?"

He flinched maybe just a bit too much when his father's voice floated over his shoulder, whipping around to face the sheriff. His worn face was full of worry and a fair bit of fatherly love, too, but that was a constant with his dad. Even after hard times.

Stiles removed his hand from his arm, placing them by his sides before flashing an overenthusiastic grin. "Just peachy," He responded cheerfully, doing a fair job at hiding his sarcasm. He didn't want to make his dad worry, or be sad, and his plan to make the man believe he was a-okay was actually working. The warm smile that greeted his statement and the relieved eyes just added to his resolve. More loose ends tied.

"That's good, son. That's good." He murmured, before clapping his hand over Stiles's shoulder. Stiles pushed his grin more, more convincing, _don't let him realize how shitty you actually feel._ He was pulled into a hug, and while they weren't face to face Stiles let his facade drop, but continued with it when his dad pulled away. He looked into Stiles's eyes, and he attempted to push pure "I'm okay" signals into them. He couldn't tell if it worked. "Are you sure you're not feeling up for school?"

"Oh, no." Stiles answered quickly, making a _tsk_ noise as he motioned with his hands. His dad had asked him that earlier, too, when Scott was getting ready, and he'd declined. He'd take that week-off deal and hold out from going into public for as long as he possibly could. "I don't really think that's a good idea, at least not yet, you know?" He flippantly bit his lip, playing a sort of begging look in his eyes. 

His father took notice, and nodded. "Yeah, only when you're ready, okay?" He could see the man yearning for another embrace, but he moved out of the way, angling toward the stairs. He let his smile fall down into something subtle before starting to ascend, sliding his hand up the wooden railing, acutely aware of his father watching him all the way.

"I'm going to head off to work, okay?" Came his dad's voice once more, soft and cautious and mingling with the tinkling of car keys. "You just stay here until Derek gets back."

Stiles nodded to himself, knowing that the action didn't contribute to anything. "I will, dad." He cleared his throat. "Bye."

The older man repeated the same farewell before Stiles heard the front door open and shut. He patiently waited on the steps until the wall-muffled sound of a car pulling out of the driveway reached his ears, and until the humming of the engine faded off into the distance. Then, he continued.

When he reached the top, he let out a sigh of relief. But then, the sigh evolved into a yawn, and he was yet again reminded of how weary he felt, his body pleading for him to supply it with the things he deprived of it. Food, water, but most importantly rest - he ached for the sweet release of sleep, the gentle, calming bliss in the form of oblivion that took him away from the pains of the real world. That sacred thing, though, had been tainted - a creature lurking in his once forgettable dreams ravaged his brain of any comfort sleep used to come as, it's malevolent, demeaning eyes circling his helpless body at any chance it could take. Whispering him things that he had never ever wanted to hear from anyone. The uneven footsteps as it approached, breathing heavily through it's bandaged-wrapped face-

Stiles's body straightened at the glimpse of the Nogitsune out of the corner of his eye. They were wide, and he was still as he listened - the sickeningly familiar footfalls once again walking around him. He turned, then backed up - it was gone. It _wasn't_ there, was it?

There was a hand on his shoulder. The rough, unmoving grasp he'd felt a million times. And a voice. A gravelly, amused voice.

" _Stiles._ "

At the word, Stiles ripped away and sprinted down the hallway - no, no, it couldn't be real, couldn't be there while he was awake. It wasn't possible. But, as he turned to face the direction of the stairs, the whole impossibility of it was challenged. Hunched as it stumbled toward him, slow and menacing it murmuring his name, promising the slow demise of his closest friends.

Stiles could feel his breath quickening, and was frightened at his own inability to move. His limbs wouldn't respond to his mind's desperate plea to run, feet locked stiffly to the ground like a deer standing in the headlights of a car, awaiting it's inescapable fate. The spirit was closer now, and Stiles could hear low laughter, coming from all angles. Different pitches, male and female, young and old, ringing and screaming and whispering, all of it at once. It jumped up in octaves unsteadily, tearing into his head and sending daggers into his brain. His name. _Stiles, Stiles, Stiles. They're all going to die, Stiles._

Before he knew it, the Nogitsune was upon him - grabbing him by the arms, it growled something unintelligible over the deafening voices, a smile playing on it's featureless face before it threw him bodily into the bathroom. The force of his weight threw the door open, and his head collided with the tiles with a thud. A new spike of pain reverberated through his skull and his vision blurred, arms finally feeling up to moving as he dizzily pushed himself off the ground. His frantic eyes were met with the Nogitsune standing just outside the doorway, and in a stroke of instinct, Stiles threw the door shut and promptly locked it.

The voices dimmed. For a second, he thought he'd escaped it. Then, the banging started. 

Heavy fists threw themselves against the wooden door, strong and upfront in their attempt to break it down. Stiles backed up, heels running into the edge of the bathtub as he surveyed the place for any sort of weapon against the onslaught.

That's when he noticed his reflection. 

He didn't know the last time he'd looked in a mirror, but what greeted him wasn't exactly the most appealing thing. Sweat beads rolled down his clammy face, mixing with what looked like blood trailing from his temple, evidently from his unpleasant run in with the floor. His skin was an unhealthy pale and it looked like he hadn't slept in years, showing in dark, violet-red lines under his eyes. His shaking hands were pushed stiffly to his sides, glimpses of stark white bandages peeking out from underneath his sleeves. He was so skinny, skinnier than he ever remembered being, the clothes he'd used to fill hanging loosely off his frame. It was unnatural and wrong, so lifeless and so not him. In fact, he looked almost exactly as the Nogitsune did the night Scott trapped it. Almost exactly like the figure in his dreams, the not-him that tormented him endlessly without remorse. And he hated it, despised it with a passion he'd never felt before.

Before he knew it, his shaky hands had become fists, teeth gritting as he swung at the creature that ruined his and so many other's lives. His knuckles collided roughly with the glass, and he couldn't stifle the cry that echoed from his lips as shards embedded themselves in his skin. The loud sound of the mirror shattering rang throughout the small, enclosed space, nearly drowning out the banging on the door at it's climax. Then, all that was left was the noise of the remains of it clanged on the floor, decorating the creamy white tiles.

_Stiles, Stiles, Stiles._

The voices returned, starting out soft, but with each passing moment they became louder, more demanding. Stiles pulled his wounded fist to his chest, feeling blood snake it's way down his wrist into the edges of his bandages. Louder they got, and the banging soon followed. 

"Please stop," he whispered uselessly, eyes wide and pupils small. His small, vulnerable voice was easily overtaken by the screaming of the unknown, but he didn't give up. " _Please._ " His eyes welled with tears, and the shouting became more pronounced, mocking his pleas and laughing at his expense. 

The hinges of the door began to splinter. It wouldn't be long before the Nogitsune broke either the lock or the whole thing.

Sliding down onto the ground, Stiles pulled his knees to his chest, hugging them as he breathed, trying his best not to cry. Not to show weakness, but he couldn't help it as the tears started to roll their way down his cheeks, unable to stop the slow sobs that soon shook his chest. It was so loud, deafening, and he couldn't hear anything else than his own name, over and over and _over_ again. He was on the verge of insanity, hands pressed tightly against his ears but doing nothing to deter the noise. Something trickled from his nose and past his lips, the unmistakable scent of iron making itself known. Then, he felt something wet again his palms.

" _S-stop_ ," He stammered, and despite knowing very well that pleading was fruitless, he continued, increasing his own screams tenfold to match his opponent's. _Stop, Stiles, Stop, Stiles, Stop, Stiles, Stop, Stiles_ -

The lock broke, splinters flying as the Nogitsune succeeded. Impossibly, he could still hear it's pleased mutterings as it marched toward him, fingers by it's side and outstretched. Ready to strangle him again, maybe, or force him into playing a game of his own sanity. He tried to scoot backwards, but his back was met with the edge of the bathtub - there was nowhere to go. It came closer, before it pounced, yowling as it captured it's prey. He screamed, not even understanding his own intentions on words as the creature's arms enclosed around his shivering frame-

Not in a breaking grip.

In an embrace.

Stiles stopped his shrieking when he looked up, and saw not the ugly mug of the creature he'd become so accustomed to, but the frantically scared and concerned green gaze of Derek Hale.

"Stiles," He soothed, but then he took in Stiles's face, where he no doubt noticed something out of place. He grabbed Stiles's wrists, pulling them away from his ears, and Stiles let him - the shock of the whole situation did not seem to be fading. It had felt so real. Was it real? As if to prove his thoughts, his hands were coated with a thin layer of blood, as if he'd had severe enough brain damage to bleed from the ears. But he didn't feel like he had brain damage, especially to that extent. Derek looked back up at him, green meeting brown. "What the hell?" The older male breathed, confusion coating his words, along with many other emotions Stiles couldn't bother to identify.

He opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out. His throat ached from screaming, and the only thing he could think about was how great water sounded right then.

Derek took his wounded hand and examined it, getting a little too close to Stiles for comfort. With a gentleness he didn't know the alpha was capable of, Derek plucked a particularly large piece of mirror from his knuckle. Stiles bit back a cry, but managed to let out a small, strangled noise of hurt, pushing himself harder against the smooth edge of the bathtub. 

Then, Derek did something so unexpected that it sent Stiles into an even more advanced state of shock. He grabbed Stiles's other hand with a firm grip, wringing their fingers together. It was very disconcerting before he saw how the black veins snaked up his wrist and through his hands, doing the same thing that Scott did from what seemed like so long ago - he was attempting to take away his pain.

The shock seemed to lift a bit, and the ringing from his ears eased. The dull ache of his fist and head lessened. Stiles looked up, and despite all his feelings about deserving it, he couldn't help the gratitude that radiated from his gaze.

Derek seemed to sense that, because - and get this - an actual smile grew on his face. Yeah, he was still shaky and scared for Stiles for whatever reason, but the sourwolf was smiling. A real, honest smile.

And scarily, the smile was infectious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really like how this chapter turned out oof


	3. Sacrilege

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took so long, the other things I've written for different fandoms have been super short chapter-ed (??) so I have set a minimum for these ones, it basically has to take up at least eighteen KB on my computer to qualify for posting

His brain was on fire. Sweat still rolled down his pale skin, the hints of blood trailing from his nose and ears still visible against his pallor. His breathing was labored, and he was on the verge of passing out, but still managed to keep himself in a state of fevered consciousness. Delirious, yes, but not asleep. Distantly, he wondered if his whole grudge against sleep was what caused the attack, or the hallucination as Derek had told him, but his entire mindset forced him to deny it.

His eyes were closed, and he wished he had been out of it enough to not notice the coldest thing he ever encountered set on his forehead. He sat up, hissing and batting away the hand that held the item, but felt arms push him back onto the bed.

"Stiles, stay still," Came a voice, Derek's, as the cold _thing_ was set back on his head. In retrospect, he probably shouldn't have been fighting it - he felt the cool temperatures beginning to relieve his killer headache, sooth the aching even more than Derek's enhanced grasp could muster. But, of course, he swatted it away once more, movements weak as the older wolf gently laid his arms back by his sides. "Calm down." He demanded in a stern voice, but still recognizable as anxious and vaguely worried.

"Who are you," He whispered, cracking his eyes open to the blurry world before him. He was barely aware of Derek leaning over him, that weird, sympathetic gaze striking him right through. Confusion radiated off Stiles in waves. "And what have you done with Derek?"

His question was met with a small bout of laughter - he wasn't aware of saying anything funny. Thoroughly concerned was not a way to describe Derek at all - anxious over someone like Stiles was just wrong. That was the whole complete opposite of Derek. He was cold, uncaring.. petty. Not this. He let himself scowl, bringing a hand up to push the ice pack harder onto his head, breathing in deeply. This was confusing, yes, but not without it's perks.

Derek shook his head, probably convinced Stiles was not even remotely lucid and did not take the time to respond. He instead grabbed Stiles open hand, the one that was bruised and swollen and held it close to him. Even more confusion seeped into the sane parts of Stiles's brain, but were distinguished when he realized what Derek was doing, and spotted the white roll identifiable as bandages.

A groan echoed from his lips at the thought of more of the itchy, sweaty substance wrapped around yet another one of his body parts. Especially his knuckles. He didn't have the strongest punch, but anything would do to protect himself from the creature that plagued him. Bandages only made his attempts at defending himself softer, and despite his strong need to pull his hand away from Derek, he couldn't help but let the alpha uncurl his fingers, soft but calloused touch wrapping the white bands over and over until you couldn't spot the swollen, marred skin underneath.

"Thanks," Stiles murmured humbly, pulling his hand back against his chest and lying his head back on the pillow. He let a breath escape his lungs - one he'd been holding since the door of the bathroom was broken down. Since Derek carried his limp, shaking body to his bed, and cleaned the blood off his face.

A familiar shame rolled over him in waves, and he felt the need to run away - to relieve himself of that green gaze, get rid of that window for judgement. Maybe feel less goddamn useless, always having to be saved by Scott or Derek or literally anyone else. Who was the last person he saved? Kira, probably. But doing that only caused everyone a shit ton more trouble than it was worth.

A thought popped into Stiles's brain. How _was_ Kira?

He hadn't really talked to her since the Nogitsune collapsed into dust at his feet. He hadn't really talked to anyone, actually, but that was besides the point. He didn't know how Kira was doing, all he knew was that Scott was developing just the tiniest crush on her, and that he had been spending all his extra time with her instead of him.

Of course, that was fine. Stiles had no problem. It left him to his own devices where he could plan everything out he needed, without interruption. It was preferred, actually. The kitsune was a great ploy to keep Scott off his back, and it had worked until Stiles decided to be a little too dramatic and text everyone he knew to come to the hospital.

_Everyone he knew._

For the first time in the four days since the roof, Stiles thought about everyone else. Had Lydia been there, waiting for him to wake? He couldn't bear to see her cry. Just like his dad, Lydia was one of Stiles's soft spots - the strawberry blonde was his best friend almost as much as Scott, and he would do anything for her. But, he came to wonder - what if she hadn't been there at all?

He thought of Malia, and promptly reminded himself she probably had no idea how to use a phone. His death would give her the apology she deserved - leading her on, genuinely loving her, then leaving her to the hands of the creature inside. To be fair, he had only done it for her safety, but in her eyes it probably looked like betrayal. Even if she had known, Stiles doubted she would've come. She wasn't the touchy-feely type.

And then, his mind went back to Kira. Had she come to the hospital, to comfort Scott even though she was visibly afraid of Stiles? Whenever he moved too quick, made a joke about something even remotely relating to any sort of injury, she'd flinch - and one time, Stiles saw Scott flinch too.

A new thought erupted in his head. Was _everyone_ scared of him?

And, as the long sigh of the man beside him reverberated throughout the room, Stiles wondered, was Derek afraid too?

 

"Stiles, you have to sleep."

It was two forty-nine in the afternoon, under an hour before Scott would return home. He, albeit impatiently, was waiting for his best friend to get Derek off his ass. He was sick of the weird mother-hennish attitude the older male was sporting, and just wished to be left alone, but Derek couldn't be wavered.

"I really don't," Stiles retorted sarcastically, holding the now half-melted ice pack to his temple loosely. It was still cold, more of a dull chill than anything, but it still lessened the overall pain of whatever head injury he had. Honestly, it was scary - what kind of head injury _did_ he have? It must've been pretty bad to bleed from the nose and ears. He hadn't seen that kind of stuff outside horror movies. Not healthy at all, but he was almost one hundred percent sure none of that was from not sleeping. It just wasn't medically possible.

If this was a more normal situation, Stiles would be inputting his symptoms into google on his laptop, but for some absurd reason that had been taken from him.

"You kinda do," Responded Derek, amusement sitting on his tongue, held back by the constant concern that was just so very uncharacteristic. "I mean, hallucinating because you haven't had a good non-medically induced sleep in what, a week?"

"It wasn't a hallucination." He murmured, the words leaving his lips without even having to think about it. What, had he thrown _himself_ into the bathroom? Slammed his own head against the floor from the fall? Even if that was the truth, he doubted his eyes could make up such a realistic form of the Nogitsune. The last time he'd seen the creature in the waking world, it was definitely real, so why was now any different?

"Okay. You think that. So, what exactly happened, then?" The alpha replied loosely, verging on exasperated. He was surely getting frustrated. "You know, after your dad left you alone?" The words came out slightly bitter, probably towards the sheriff.

Stiles shuffled against the bed sheets. They scratched uncomfortably against his clammy skin. "Oh you know," He started, voice taking on it's usual sardonic tone. "Normal things."

"Stiles." Derek warned, voice barely above a fed-up growl. He sat back in the chair he'd procured from somewhere in the house, the flimsy wood creaking under his weight.

Rolling his eyes, Stiles clicked his tongue and continued. "Whatever. So, I came up here" He said, making elaborate one-handed gestures to go along with his storytelling, "and it was normal, right? So then, I pause at the top, for some reason, and then I see it. Of course, I get just a little freaked out and go to move away, but then it's hand is on me-" An involuntary shudder runs through him. The cold, hard grip on his shoulder is back, but this time he knows it's only a phantom sensation. At Derek's prying gaze, he willed the feeling away and continued. "Well, long story short, I'm left running down the hall. Once I see it walking toward me my brain backfires on itself and my feet get glued to the ground. So I couldn't move. It kept coming, and I kept just standing there, and then," another shiver, "it throws me by my waist into the bathroom." He motioned to the slowly drying wound just under his hairline. "Proof."

"Proof, yeah," Derek muttered, unconvinced. "Just go on."

A frown settled on Stiles's face at the lackluster reply, but with a sigh he opened his mouth back up. "So - and like, now I can move - I slam the door shut and lock it, right in it's face. I thought I was fine, really, that I'd outsmarted it." Dropping the ice pack in his lap, Stiles let his hands fall to his knees. "I'm really an idiot, I've heard it a million times, you can't outsmart a trickster." He brought his hands to his face, breathing slowly and covering his expression, before pulling his hands up and running his fingers through his hair. "But. You know. It was the spur of the moment - I didn't know any better. Stupid."

"You're not stupid-"

Stiles flashed Derek a look of his own intimidation, and was relatively surprised when he actually shut up. Stiles smiled to himself. "So. The thing didn't give up, you know, it's really stubborn. Banged on the door for like, what seemed like hours. But it wasn't hours, obviously." Again, he ran a hand through his hair, a frown settling on his face as he remembered the voices. Loud, screaming, begging and demanding all at the same time. Something out of a horror movie. He found himself thinking that a lot, but it was justified. It honestly did feel like he was living out a horror movie.

Stiles almost laughed. He probably was. Werewolves, kitsunes, spirits, big evil bad guys who killed your friends. Possession, murder, the supernatural. Yeah, exactly like a horror movie.

"Well anyway," He murmured, deciding not to mention the voices. "It finally broke the lock, and then it came at me and- and you were there."

"A hallucination," Derek repeated, voice firm but wary. "A hallucination that read into reality. It happens all the time, Stiles. It's like" he paused, glancing toward the floor, "sleepwalking. You're not awake, maybe not even there, but you see what's happen. Imagine it."

Stiles nodded slowly, closing his eyes, when something popped up - _sleepwalking. Not even there, but you see it happen._

_Allison._

Stiles remembered it vividly. Her hair flying wild as the sword ran her straight through, a breathless gasp rushing past pink lips and hands going to the wound. The sharp noise as the sword was pulled out, before the offending Oni disappeared. How she fell, alone until Scott came rushing out, sobbing and holding her tightly. Whispering things he could not make out.

But that was the thing. Stiles wasn't there, no. He was in the tunnels with Lydia, passed out from what felt like exhaustion. He'd heard her scream ricochet through the night air, deafening as she predicted the next dead body to arrive. It made sense for him to hear the scream. But to see everything else, the battle Allison was doing so very well in. She'd discovered how to kill the Oni, too, and died with the knowledge. Died at his hand, and he'd witnessed it all.

But how? _How?_

Had he actually been there? Could he have prevented it?

She didn't deserve it. She had so much to live for. She'd never done anything remotely wrong, and she was a friend to everyone, despite her hunter background. She didn't deserve to _die._

Stiles didn't even feel himself start to cry before it happened - tears welling up in his eyes as he reminisced, hearing Scott's sobs like he was right next to him, Allison's breath hitching and falling as she struggled to stay alive just a little longer. Her bright, sad eyes as she cried, lips curling in a smile before all the light in those brown irises fell away, and she went limp.

"Stiles? Stiles, are you all right?"

Realizing that yes, there was somebody else in the room, Stiles smiled. He shook his head, sniffling and wiping his tears in an attempt to play it down. "Fine," He murmured, clearing his throat. "A-okay." The half-sarcastic lie fell easily off his tongue.

 

 

_Allison._

She stood still by the lakeside, arms curled tightly around her body, as if she were cold. Her shoulders shivered slowly, and the quick exhales of her breath were visible in the cool air. Her bow lie untouched next to her, and a single arrow stood pointing out of the water toward the starless sky. Stiles watched her from a distance, his own breath clouding his vision.

" _Allison,_ " he felt his lips move, but not at his own will - they moved on their own, a familiar sensation running through his body as he felt himself take a step forward. "Allison, come here."

A shudder ran through the figure by the lake, and she shook her head. "No," she whispered defiantly, voice thick and wavering.

A laugh ran through Stiles's body, amusement and held down rage bubbling up through his veins. He walked forward, movement quick and sure. "Fine then," he responded, tone sharp. "Have it your way."

He was approaching her quick, with a skip in his step. His face was a mask, too neutral for the disastrous emotions churning inside. His hands curled into fists, and Allison went to run as she heard him nearing, but her feet would not move from the ground. Muffled, quiet crying started to radiate from the girl, and her arms curled tighter around her torso. 

" _No,_ " She repeated, once more shaking her head. "Please, no, leave me alone, I'm sorry, I haven't done anything-" 

With each word, Stiles got closer, closer and closer until he was close enough to touch. And touch he did - his arm striking out, fingers curling around her neck. Her crying ceased, as did her breathing.

"I'm aware of that," He spoke with unidentifiable malice as he pulled the brunette toward him. Her feet, still unmoving from the lakeside, caused her body to arch painfully until her head was resting on his shoulder. Her face was red, covered in tears, but her eyes were bright, not lacking the usual disobedient nature the archer loved to sport. It sent something inside of him into an angered frenzy, at why she hadn't broken yet, why she was so strong. The punchline was running late, and Stiles didn't like it.

"Leave me _alone_ ," Allison spat, her eyes narrowed and teeth locked in a half snarl. Then, she physically spat on him, conjuring up a pleased smile of her own as she relished in her small, self-titled victory.

That anger inside only grew, a previously small flame rapidly evolving into a raging fire.

" _Leave_ -" Stiles pulled her back more, and her smirk was quickly changed to a grimace as she let out a cry, the noise mingling with the rhythmic cracking of whatever bones she possessed, " _you_ -" Soon, the cries turned to screams, and Stiles felt her thrash under his tight grasp in a desperate attempt to escape the pain. "- _alone_?" A laugh bubbled up through him, pleasure running deep as the pain was transferred to him. For some reason, it felt good. So, so _good_.

Then, he tightened his grip on her neck and pushed her forward, stepping closer to the water - the blatant disregard for human anatomy caused her shrieking to double tenfold as the bones he'd previously broken were forced back into their original place. Then, he kept pushing, and finally her feet came unstuck from the ground beneath her. An unmistakable smile came upon Stiles's face as she tripped, falling toward the shallows in front of her.

And, as she fell into the water, the arrow came back into focus, sticking straight out of her back, silver tip shining bloody in the moonlight.

Everything Stiles had been feeling disappeared, and he was back in control of his body. He felt his own limbs go numb at the shock, and at his reflection, disturbed by the ripples of the water, and red-twinged by the growing stain around Allison's body. He was there, staring back, but it wasn't him. He couldn't look away as the image changed, a slow, malicious smile spreading across his milky skin.

"No," Stiles whispered, shaking his head. His voice strained as he shouted, the not-him beginning to rise out of the water, grasping at the edges of the lake. It's movements were erratic and quick, unlike anything he'd ever seen before. It's face, his face, was angled toward the ground, out of sight as it practically slid toward him. And on it's arm was the bloody outline of a bite.

" _Delusions,_ " It spat in his voice, causing an end to his yelling. Water dripped from it's sodden clothing.

"Delusions?" Stiles responded, words wavering.

"Not even just my work," It whispered, and then something seemed to run through it- it fell forward, and Stiles jumped back, the creature only catching itself with it's hands. It's bloodied, wet hands, grasping at the strands of grey grass as it attempted to push itself back up. "You're going crazy, Stiles. Utterly _insane._ " Then, it lifted it's head, climbing onto it's knees. "Like me."

Everything was numb. His face, it wasn't his face. The eyes were scratched out, bloody and missing from empty sockets. Watery, red fluids ran down from them, dripping all the way down it's neck. Slits were made at the edges of it's mouth, lips set in a permanent smile as it began to laugh. 

"No, I'm nothing like you," Stiles spat, knees weak. His hands shook and he felt light headed. " _Nothing._ "

It's laughter only grew as it crawled toward him, skeletally thin body rivaling Stiles's own. "It's only a matter of time, Stiles," It hissed. "Before _we_ are one again. We will make them _pay._ " It grew closer, cocking it's head as it staggered, broken and bloody. "We will make them _pay_ for what they've done to us."

Stiles shook his head, over and over and over. He tried to remind himself of what Derek, Scott, and everyone told him - it was gone. It was trapped, it was _dead_. But the proof was damning - there the Nogitsune was, weak and broken but still there, still inside him. Laughing at his fear and promising the things it always did. 

"You're not real," Stiles replied, voice empty.

A scoff followed his words. "Not _real_?" It gaped, it's smile growing. "You really have lost your mind. I'm as real as I've ever been, _Stiles._ " 

Blood dripped down from his nose, flooding into his open mouth. Iron was the only thing he smelled, tasted, but he barely noticed it. "You're not real," He repeated uselessly. "You're not real _you're not real, you're not real_ -"

_Not real. Not real. Not real._

_Real._

 

\---

 

"He's sleeping?"

"Yeah," Scott responded like it was nothing, feeling pleased with himself. "I had to practically force a sleeping pill down his throat, though." He smiled. "The dosage is two, but he was literally so tired one did it almost immediately."

His hopeful enthusiasm wasn't reciprocated - Derek had his arms crossed, a worried expression settled on his face. One that Scott had been seeing a bit too much of lately.

"Hey, Derek," Scott said, lowering his voice. "Stiles is gonna be fine. It might take awhile, but he seems to be getting better already."

"You call smashing a mirror just 'cause he saw himself _'better'_?"

Scott's heart dimmed at that statement - Derek had already told him about what had happened while he was at school, but Stiles seemed better when he visited him, despite the struggle to make him take sleeping medicine. It was good that he was getting some of his feelings out at all, despite the means the venting came with. Hallucinations were not good, no, and if Stiles was sleep-deprived enough to those he was certainly not _'better'_. But it seemed something was changing - Stiles had opened up to Derek of all people. From what Scott knew, Derek was a great source of annoyance for Stiles, but the it was the same the other way around, which also confused him. Why exactly _did_ Derek volunteer to help him make sure Stiles didn't do anything dangerous again?

Dismissing his thoughts as unimportant, Scott moved to reply. "Well, at least he made some progress by actually _talking_ someone," He explained, thinking back to the day before. "It's an improvement from how he was in the car-"

Distantly, Scott heard screaming.

Specifically, Stiles screaming.

Before Scott even thought about it, Derek was already up the stairs, sprinting to Stiles's room. But, like a good best friend, Scott was soon behind him, almost at the verge of rushing past just to see what exactly was happening.

Scott could make out the words when they reached his door, the quick bawling of the statement not real, over and over again. Confusion and concern ran through him. This was certainly _not_ 'better'.

Derek threw the door with almost as much strength as he did on the roof, rushing forward to where Stiles was thrashing on the bed. Scott ran too, hands grabbing at limbs as he attempted to calm the sobbing boy.

A small trail of blood ran from Stiles's nose, but luckily that was all that seemed to physically plague him. The problem was, mental ailments seemed to be dragging him down.

" _Stiles,_ wake up!" Derek's voice interrupted his thought process, voice authoritative but with a certain shakiness to make anyone feel nervous. Scott's eyes flickered to the side, where he barely processed the image of Stiles's hands switch from clutching the bed sheets with a white-knuckled grip to tangling his fingers with Derek's, other hand desperately grasping out anything to pull him from whatever he was seeing. Derek's posture changed at the gesture, eyes going wide for a second before he seemed to dismiss it, file it away for another time, but he did not pull away.

Swallowing, Scott decided to speak up, grabbing Stiles's wrist and forcing his arm to the bed. "Come on, man, you gotta wake up." He pleaded, hating the sight of his best friend's eyes rolling around frantically under closed, discolored eyelids, tears leaking out wherever they could. He just wanted it to stop, for him to be smiling, happy and unburdened once more. It wasn't fair.

Then, as if on it's own accord, the light bulb in Stiles's lamp rapidly grew in brightness, the hum of it's electricity rising in volume before the entire glass sphere exploded.  
Stiles flew up, awake, ripping out of Scott's grasp and throwing his arms around the nearest person, Derek. Face hidden in the man's shoulder as his sobs and newly incomprehensible muttering grew louder. Derek seemed surprised and shocked before he started his routine, attempting to soothe Stiles, muttering reassuring nothings in his ear.

Scott stepped back from the bed, shoes cracking small shards of glass under his feet. Disassociated with the situation, his gaze focused on the lamp at the far side of the room. Remembering Kira, showing him her powers casually for the first time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i value these comments too much for it to be healthy


	4. Sovereign

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry it took so long auugh ive had really bad writer's block but im sure it'll get better after this im sorry it took a whole actual month

Lightning crashed.

Stiles flinched, knees almost up to his chin and blankets curled tightly around his shivering frame. He tried to keep his eyes closed, but he couldn't help but sneak a peek at the window every once in a while. Large raindrops hit the glass like they intended to break it, loud like everything else during the storm. Rain usually calmed him, but this kind of rain, paired with flashes of purple-tinted lightning and god himself slamming doors upstairs? He hated it. With a passion.

The darkness outside was terrifying. It was only seven in the afternoon, where the sun just should've started setting, but no. The clouds blocked out again sun's chance to try and set. They were dark and swirling forebodingly in the sky, mingling with bolts of electricity that were too far away to make any noise.

The Nogitsune loved storms. Inside, he could weakly feel it relishing in the sight. It wasn't strong enough to speak to him in his waking hours but the feelings were there - ringing throughout his consciousness like a second mind. He couldn't push it out, either. No matter how hard he tried. Satisfactory sensations ran through him, mingling with a vague fear and stress he couldn't will away. Of what was outside the window, waiting. For the first time in a few days, Stiles was thankful the potential entrance was blocked off.

A flash lit up the room for a moment, and Stiles only glimpsed Derek skulking in the corner for a second before he braced himself, and the next boom came, shaking his bones and sending joyful feelings rushing up his spine. It was too conflicting, and almost painful. He needed to tell someone, he needed someone to alleviate that pain.

"Scott?" Stiles murmured, voice raw and quiet in the soundless atmosphere but so loud at the same time. "Are you awake?"

A beat.

"No," Derek stated from his place in the corner, shifting his posture. Stiles could practically feel his prying green gaze drilling holes into his shape on the bed. "He's not."

Another beat.

Derek had been distant ever since Stiles admitted he was positive the Nogitsune was back. Before, the man's arms had been around him like a mother comforting their child, but once the words passed his lips, he backed off. Stared at Scott, and the shattered lightbulb Stiles hadn't even acknowledged at the time. Their gazes spoke volumes, the silent conversation that Stiles could only make out as some sort of sense-driven werewolf talk. Smelling each other's mood was the one thing he could come up with. But, after that, Derek had stormed out with that signature scowl slapped on his face. 

After that, body instinctively yearning for that tight but gentle embrace again, he was left with Scott. He'd asked if Stiles was sure, if he was serious. That question was easy to answer, but not exactly easy to formulate. He was crying like a stupid baby and the only thing he could remotely pass as a response was a nod of the head. But that was it.

Scott seemed to get it, though; he understood, and went in for a hug, but for some reason it just wasn't the same. Stiles held on for a little too long for it to not be awkward before Scott inevitably pulled away.

Things were weird after that. The night passed normally, at least as normal as things could get with a killer fox spirit beginning to re-possess you. Scott and Derek talked low and quiet outside his bedroom door and left him to clean himself up, wiping now dry blood from his skin, washing away sticky tears only for them to be replaced immediately afterward. If he was being honest, it had taken a good few hours for him to stop crying.

Yet another sign of weakness.

When he awoke in the morning, the sky was blue and the sun was shining. A small twinge of seasonal depression seemed to lift off Stiles's shoulders only for, in a few hours, it to be utterly ruined. Storm clouds began to brew at a scarily quick pace around nine am, and Derek began to freak out. Stiles didn't know sensing weather patterns was a wolf feature, but apparently it was. The older alpha called Scott home, murmuring things Stiles couldn't make out. 

After that, it was just hours of everyone getting increasingly distressed in some way or another.

Stiles began to feel the Nogitsune after so long without it. 

Scott fretted over Kira, and talked about things he wouldn't share with Stiles. Of course. Nobody would tell him anything. Hell, no one had talked to him directly since he woke up.

Derek was just, well, Derek. He stood with his arms crossed and a scowl on his face in the hallway, or in Stiles's room, or anywhere. A constant presence, a sharp eye watching his every move. As if he'd get up with strength he never could possess to once again kill someone he loved.

Long story short, no one was in the best mood. Except for probably Scott. He was sleeping, a smile settling on his tan face. Blissful.

In that one moment, Stiles despised him. Envy wrapped around his limbs like snakes, but he knew it wasn't him. He knew those small, once forgettable intrusive thoughts were only being amplified by the being taking residence inside of him.

Stiles jumped out of the covers when something threw itself against the window. He slammed himself against the wall, eyes as wide as dinner plates as he stared in the darkness, trying to make out whatever was outside. His brain told him to run, to hide, that it was coming again, but he stayed still.

"Something's out there!" He spat mere seconds after it happened, shocked at how Scott was still sleeping soundly. "S-Something, like a.. a something!" Even he knew his accusation was dumb. He sounded like some preschooler afraid of his closet.

A scoff echoed from the corner of the room. Stiles felt offended. "It's just a branch," Their resident Sourwolf stated, face hidden behind the gloom.

Stiles gaped. "A b-branch armed mon.. mons-ster!" He blurted on a whim, throwing an arm in the direction of the culprit. And as he stared, he could make out a tree, close enough to slap a branch on the glass if the wind blew hard enough. And the thing sure was swaying already. 

_Stupid._

_What are you, four?_

Surprisingly, a laugh sounded throughout the room. Stiles looked up, face still encapsulated in the horror of the situation. The laugh wasn't mocking like he'd expected. It was amused, but somehow, it still hurt. Everything hurt.

"No, this is not funny!" Stiles responded stiffly, shifting his position under the blankets. "This is a serious situation, Derek. Please stop laughing." His attempts were only met with more honest laughter, and the monster inside him smiled, curling it's grasp around his brain and forcing him to feel malice. He brought a hand up to his head, rubbing at his temples before his fingers ran through his hair. Wishing the feeling would go away, but it wouldn't. "Stop," Stiles pleaded, eyes as puppy-like as he could muster as he stared toward the corner. "He- It likes it."

The laughter stopped.

" _What?_ " Derek asked, voice empty. All grains of emotion seemed to leave him in under a second.

"It likes it," Stiles repeated, angling his gaze away, uncomfortable as the emotions he couldn't possibly control bubbling through him once more. "It likes you laughing. Specifically at me."

A beat.

"It's just paranoia, you know that?" Derek answered, voice tired and held back. He motioned toward Stiles. "All this."

Stiles shook his head; he wasn't paranoid. "I'm not crazy," He retaliated, legs beginning to curl up again. "You told me I wasn't crazy."

"And you're not," Derek insisted, finally moving out of the shadows. Stiles refused to look, head spinning with questions and accusations and all sorts of words he didn't ever want to hear or think again. And the feelings coming from deep inside his head, bemused malice shifting to annoyance, to full blown irritation. He scratched the bandages on his right arm absentmindedly, feeling the small bumps of a healing wound underneath. Scratching hard enough for the action to be used as an outlet for the unneeded bitterness. "You're just.. disturbed, I guess is a way to put it. Anyone would be after going through what you went through."

Stiles only responded with a sad shake of the head and an increase in hustle in his fidgeting.

Derek noticed.

"Is that bothering you?" He asked, and that oh so annoying - _no, not annoying, stop_ \- tone of voice came over him again. Stiles paused his scratching.

"Yes," he lied, taking the opportunity to not have to think up another believable excuse. "Yeah, it is."

Another flash of light illuminated the room, and it was quickly followed by an earth-shattering boom. Stiles's muscles went stiff and he closed his eyes, breathing deep as he tried to control himself. The trickster shifted under his skin, that satisfaction rushing through his veins. He pushed it away. 

Before he knew it, Derek was stepping over Scott on the floor beside his bed, motioning for Stiles to give him his hand. He complied, eyes still wracking Scott's sleeping form, watching how peaceful and happy he looked. Yearning for that, trying to dissociate from the warmth encasing his fingers, the traitorous sensations lurking beneath his face. This felt wrong, taking off the bandage. 

Instead of being practical and going to find scissors, Derek just ripped it down the side with what looked like a claw. 

Soon, the wrapping that had suffocated his arm for what felt like more than two days fell down to the ground, leaving his arm bare and vulnerable. The slashes were messy and slightly swollen around his stitches, the black and red sticking out starkly from his pale skin. He barely remembered making them - only white-hot pain, crying and a gun. That's all his brain allowed him to remember of that night. Apparently, he'd given himself eight good long and uneven scars from his wrist to his elbow. Deep, too. Too deep. Then, fresh air reached the cuts, but it only seemed like it made it hurt worse. He tried to hide it but, werewolf senses be damned, Derek noticed again. Be it those pesky senses or Stiles's blatant grimace.

"They're not infected," Derek murmured, voice the softest and more careful than it had ever been. Of course Derek could tell if a wound was infected or not, of course. Nothing could pass him. Stiles realized escaping and ending the vessel would be harder than he'd realized. "They're healing. Slowly, but still healing."

"Nice," Stiles whispered, tone sharp and cynical, blinking at the mess that was his arm. Derek nudged him, before letting go of his hand. 

"The other one, too?"

"Yeah."

Two minutes of silence, only filled by the quiet tearing of bandages, passed. Both parties stared intensely at this arm - covered in cuts, used more often since it was his non-dominant one. The one that held the largest wound; it sat just below his palm, bloody and scabbed over, cutting through other slashes he'd made previously. His mistake, probably the reason he hadn't succeeded that night. The one he'd made with the serrated blade. The one that cut an artery, the one that had endangered his life in the first place, but also the one that made sure he'd survive. The one made with hesitation.

For some reason, he felt an intense need to scratch it.

Feeling Derek's eyes, that involuntary irritation rose again, and Stiles tensed.

"Can you not do that?" He questioned almost sarcastically, looking up and meeting that green gaze. "Pry with your, like, nose? Can't you just like turn it off or something?"

"I can't just 'turn if off', Stiles." The alpha responded bemusedly. "That's not how that works."

Stiles rolled his eyes. "Well, I wish it did."

 

 

Thunder rumbled steadily as they made their way down the dark hallway. Past Noah Stilinski's room, where the Sheriff seemed to be sleeping soundly. Good, Derek thought, only lingering on the room for a moment. This must be hard.

Stiles walked beside him, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Hiding his arms behind his back, eyes on the ground. If he couldn't smell it, Derek would have trouble knowing what he was thinking. But since he could, it was relatively easy. Shame radiated off the boy in waves. Shame and a deep dark hole of - and there was only one way to put this - depression. A detectable chemical imbalance triggered by events prior. Stiles was depressed.

The statement felt sour in his mind.

The two turned into the bathroom, Derek flicking on the light as Stiles readied himself by the sink. Face unreadable. Scent very telling, albeit concerning. He stared intently at the broken mirror.

"Hot or cold?" Derek asked, and unexpectedly, Stiles flinched. His honey colored eyes flickered back to Derek, and he swallowed, shaking his head as if to silence an inner battle. 

"Um," The boy mumbled, voice drawling. He blinked as he contemplated the question, before meekly voicing his answer. "Whichever's best."

With a nod, Derek reached out and turned the water on. He let his fingers twiddle under the stream for a few moments before it heated up as much as it would go, causing a mild discomfort but hot enough to clean. He pulled his hand out, flicking the droplets off and instead now motioning for Stiles to put his arm in.

"Is it hot?"

"It's hot." He echoed.

Stiles grimaced, before he let the water rush past his wounds. Immediately, he let out a yelp and pulled away, eyes going wide.

"You didn't say it would be _that_ hot!"

Derek felt a smile play at his lips, but he was reminded to keep serious as his eyes drifted back down toward Stiles's arm. He, gently, placed a hand on a clean patch of skin around Stiles's wrist, and pulled him back toward the water. "You have to clean it, Stiles," He reminded somewhat sternly. "I know it hurts, but it's just for a second."

The other didn't voice his disapproval, but it was still evident. He let his arm go limp and let Derek guide it, slowly toward the water. He even turned down the intensity a bit, just for comfort. Then, the skin hit. 

Stiles hissed, eyes clenching shut. He tried to tug away from the water but Derek held his arm in place, refusing to let the boy give in. "Just a little longer," He murmured, watching as the blood drained away from the stitches, red-tinted water trickling down into the drain. "Just hold on."

_Just hold on._

Suddenly, Stiles was grabbing Derek's wrist, grasp tight and fingers nails scratching into his skin. Shock ran through his veins as the worst outcome appeared in his head, but when he looked over at Stiles he didn't see an malicious, emotionless face, with a clear and wide smile stretching across the skin. Instead there was Stiles, his Stiles, eyes clenched shut and mouth in a grimace.

_The Nogitsune isn't coming back. It's just Stiles, only Stiles._

After a few more minutes of heavy breathing and arm switching, each injury looked clean enough, stitches the only thing stark against Stiles's skin. The skin around was pinkish, irritated, but not infected. 

"We done?" Stiles asked, voice hard. Derek looked up and met his eyes for only a second before he looked away; they were watering. Again. The whole house rumbled once more, and Stiles's back went tense. His fingers fell from Derek's wrist, hesitant. 

"Yeah. Just let me bandag-"

"I can do it on my own."

An odd sort of hurt crashed over him, but he nodded nonetheless, trying to force the feeling from his voice. "Sure. Just don't, uh, do-"

"I'm not gonna do anything."

"Okay," Stiles kept his eyes on the tiles.

"Okay."

He left.

 

The storm only seemed to get worse, and the feelings inside only seemed to get stronger. Soon, he was hearing fragments of a voice, whispers and the soft feather-light grasp of a hand on his shoulder. He forced himself to will it away, to focus on the task at hand and keep Derek's words in mind, but it was hard. Probably because those sensations were real, no matter what the alpha said to him.

Stiles took in a deep breath, rubbing the little metal pin between his fingers, before pressing it to the bandages. The hooks grasped either side of the gauze, and when he pulled away he was relieved to see it kept together. He went to pack up the supplies when he found himself not in control of his hand, and suddenly the pin was thrown across the room, bandages falling undone. It hit the door with a dull ping.

He stared, a disturbed look settled on his face. His hands began to shake, the tingling in his fingertips alerting him that they were now once again under his own free will.

Shit.

Shit shit _shit._

_It's taking control._

_Again._

His mind was a blank as he stood, walking over and retrieving the pin. He fastened it back to his arm like it was his second nature. 

_Second nature._

Thunder roared, and the ground beneath his feet shook. Something inside of his screamed out along with the shaking, tendrils curling around his limbs, his chest, his heart and his brain. Curled around his eyes, his consciousness. His will.

And, as quick as the lights flashed out, Stiles wasn't Stiles anymore.

 

Lightning struck outside with such ferocity Scott thought the windows would shatter. The light in the hall flickered off, as did every other thing in the house. His phone pinged, alerting him it stopped charging, and the internet connection fueling his messaging app disappeared.

The electricity was out. 

With a sigh, Scott set his phone back up on the nightstand. He'd barely been awake a minute. Figured.

"Derek?" 

The alpha had been sitting on the edge of the bed, facing the window with worried eyes. He'd told Scott that Stiles wanted to be alone, and that was fine. He'd give him space, it was only fair. After all, all this was a little draining, to say the least. For everyone involved.

"Derek?" He repeated, a little less curious this time, and more prodding. He frowned. "Hey, buddy, the light's are off. You noticed that, right?"

The only sort of response he got was a nod and a hum, the man shifting an inch to the left on the bed. Scott rolled his eyes, moving to stand. 

"Come on, we gotta go see if something's wrong with the-"

An audible thump sounded from the direction of the bathroom, the direction of Stiles. Scott immediately shut up, head whipping to the side immediately as the noise sounded, and prepared to run to see what was wrong before he heard Stiles's voice.

"I'm fine!" The human shouted from the bathroom, "I tripped, cause the electricity-" A crash, and a loud swear.

A smile grew on Scott's face, and he knew Derek was smiling too. Before they knew it, Stiles was in the doorway, an embarrassed smirk on his face and his hair a mess. Everyone laughed.

For once in a long while, Scott realized they might actually be okay.


	5. Survive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey my readers it's four am and i've been writing since nine heres a half baked chapter for ya. and rip the people who wanted this to be a happy ending sickfic. i wanted it to be that but it's not sadly, he's going to go through a shit ton more.. shit before this is done and over with (and derek and stiles get together. that's pretty much endgame for this fic. or like, middle game. i dunno yet)

Everything was not okay.

Stiles didn't know how long it had been since he'd regained consciousness, per say, or how long the creature was still in control of his body. He had no chance of resurfacing. Instead of a game, with equal opportunities on both sides like before, he was completely alone, unable to battle for a chance to even catch a glimpse at what lied before his own eyes. The Nogitsune was nowhere to be seen, and hadn't been since he'd woken up there, in the dark, cold basement of the Eichen House. It was all the same, instead this time there was no bear trap around his leg. He was safe, in a metaphorical, not literally sort of sense. He was still in his own mind, trapped and alone, and there was nothing he could do about it.

He'd already tried yelling, and had done so for what seemed like hours until his voice cut out. He'd stopped crying, too. It was worth nothing when no one was there to hear it.

He could imagine what the Nogitsune was doing, his delusions making up for the lack of the actual picture. He'd played the part of bumbling teenage boy before, and now he could have only gotten better at it. He had no reason to break his cover or let the actual Stiles out until his plan succeeded, and he was satisfied. But, the Nogitsune being satisfied was not a thing that could happen.

Stiles paused his pacing as the reality set in, placing a hand on the icy metal of the railing beside him. The Nogitsune would never be saited. He would go on and on, ruining thousands of people's lives before he was inevitably stopped in some way or another, be it accidental or intentional. He would cause as much chaos, pain, and strife as possible, the blood of so many coating his hands. _And,_ he thought in a panic, eyes widening, _Derek and Scott and my Dad will be first._

He hadn't thought it possible.

 

 

"I am literally going to kill someone if they mention my hair one more time," Lydia spat in Scott's direction, tone harsh but voice playful. Her hair, previously cascading down her shoulders in a peaceful manner, had been utterly devastated by an incident in chemistry. She'd tried her best to fix it, but there were still many stray hairs sticking up in every direction.

"Okay, we won't," Scott responded bemusedly, sliding in to the seat across from her. Kira followed suit, side rubbing against his as she set her tray down. "I mean, it's Stiles's fault."

Stiles had yet to come to the table, probably due to him being the cause of the eruption. For reasons he could only explain as Stiles being Stiles, he blatantly disobeyed the teacher's instructions, and Lydia, his partner, had gotten the worst of the explosion. He'd done it for laughs, and laughs he got; the entire class burst into laughter at their ash-smudged faces, the image like something out of a cartoon. Luckily, it hadn't caused any property damage, just a huge ass mess. Stiles had probably been forced to clean said mess, too.

"I swear, if he hadn't just got back I'd _throttle_ him," Lydia threatened, a pout on her ruby-red lips. She crossed her arms, staring disinterestedly at her lunch tray, before picking up an apple. "However, verbally, he's still going to have something coming."

Kira paused her eating, setting her fork back on the table. "Lydia," she called, the strawberry-blonde's eyes flickering back up to her friend. "You've got a little, uh, something." she motioned toward Lydia's hairline, were a visible ash smudge that Lydia somehow missed after reapplying her makeup. Scott couldn't surpress his snicker, bringing up a hand to hide his giggling.

Lydia made a very frustrated noise in response, eyes sending daggers in Scott's direction as she haphazardly scrubbed at the mark, mumbling an appreciative thanks in Kira's direction.

Lunch continued as normal for a good ten minutes. Talking, laughing, discussing what they thought Stiles's sentence was. At the very least he'd be suspended for a day. Kira and Lydia liked to explore different possibilities, like expulsion, or having to scrape gum off the bottom of the lunch tables for a week. Which, admittedly, would absolutely suck.

And, suddenly, their topic of conversation was standing right next to them.

Stiles had a lazy smile on his face, eyes amused and half-lidded, hair an even bigger mess than Lydia's. He'd barely attempted to smooth it back down, and his face still showed remnants of the explosion. He slid in next to Lydia, bumping closely against her side. Lydia scooted away.

"So what's the verdict?" Scott asked excitedly, and Stiles turned his attention to him, cocking his head to the side a bit. The hand he had on the table clenched, and suddenly Scott was afraid his sentence was a bad one. Like the expulsion they'd discussed earlier, or the dreaded gum-cleaning. But, as soon as it had happened, Stiles hid the hand under the table. 

"Oh, nothing really," He responded, voice smooth and controlled. "Just a warning. They said I should pay attention more to instructions, but they understood my state due to _events prior_." He said the last bit with a tone of disbelief, the smile on his face widening. "Really, you can get away with anything in this school!"

His words were met with laughter, but it was partially forced. Stiles's insensitive sayings were not new, and ever since the blowout with Derek he'd been acting like those _events prior_ never happened, or at least not at the severity they did. They respected it, the past was in the past, and people already talked about it enough. He could understand Stiles's need to put that behind him. So, no one brought it up.

"Stiles Stilinski," Lydia finally said. "You are the _worst_ lab partner."

Stiles nodded. "Yeah, I can agree with that," He stated vaguely, turning his gaze back toward Lydia with an odd look in his eyes, somewhat resembling hunger.

Scott cringed a bit. Yeah, his advances on Lydia weren't new either. Just much, _much_ less subtle. A childhood crush was one thing, but full on lust was another.

He talk to him about it after school.

About fifteen minutes later, the bell that signaled them to go back to class tolled, and a collective groan ran across the cafeteria. A shit ton of people took psychology, which was having a huge test that day, so he understood. Lydia, Kira, and Stiles were all in that class, so their miserable expressions were easily explained.

Kira mumbled a quick goodbye to him and he felt a small, bubbly laugh come up out of his mouth as she gave him a chaste kiss on the cheek, running off in the direction of Lydia's strawberry blonde head in the distance.

Stiles still sat at the table, head in his hands.

"Hey, Stiles?"

The boy barely moved, opening his fingers so an eye could see out. He glared at Scott.

"Yeah?"

Scott frowned. "You got a test, right?" He shuffled his feet on the smooth linoleum floor, hearing his sneakers squeak. "Better get to that."

Stiles nodded, pushing himself back into a standing position. "Oh, right," he murmured, fixing the buttons on the end of his sleeves to make sure they stayed down. "I better." He spun on his heel and started to head in the direction of the exit.

Scott's frown deepened, and something inside of him sizzled up into his brain and caused his earlier concern for his best friend to increase. He tucked a hand in his pocket, trying to look at least somewhat nonchalant.

"Hey, Stiles, do you have time after school, to like, come over?" He paused. "We should talk."

Stiles's back tensed, and he turned, eyes on Scott's shoes. "Oh, pfft, _no,_ " He responded incredulously, gesturing wildly at the concept. "I, uh, actually have to clean my dad's office. And it's a real mess, so that'll probably take all day." He glanced up at Scott, and his honey-brown eyes hardened with something he couldn't make out. "Sorry."

Putting on a very fake smile, Scott nodded, letting his own eyes trail to the ground. "Oh, no dude, it's alright," He promised, dipping his head. "Another time?"

When he looked up, Stiles was already gone.

 

 

A kitchen knife, in the side of his stomach, right above his left hip. Twisting wickedly as he grasped at his torso, unable to locate said knife he was sure existed. Somehow.

He almost collapsed to the cold floor, but something kept him grounded. He slouched over, breath ragged, feeling blood well up and rush out of his skin, staining his clothes red. He then felt the knife be tugged out, doing even more damage to his fragile body than it did going in.

He clenched his eyes shut, teeth grinding in pain. He went to reach out for the railing, but instead of feeling the metal against his bloody fingertips he felt.. wood.

Suddenly, Stiles _was_ Stiles again.

He threw his eyes open, and found himself to be in a very unfamiliar setting. It was admittedly very hard to make out anything with the burning pain near his hip, but one thing he knew was that he was in a kitchen. It was nighttime, judging by the almost complete lack of light, save for the moonlight shining in through the small, brown window, slightly obscured by a box of pink tulips. It explained the kitchen knife, of course, but then came the question; who the hell stabbed him with said knife?

He took an unsteady step forward, knees shaking. His eyes were wide and he felt like hell, mind racing at three thousand thoughts per second. Where was he? What time was it? How long had he been gone? An hour, a day, a week, a month? Why was he here, in this foreign kitchen, with a hole in his abdomen?

He took another step forward, and was met with his unlikely answer. His foot hit a mass.

When he redirected his attention toward the floor, he stopped breathing.

There lay an old woman. An old woman he definitely recognized, an old woman who used to walk her dog passed his house when he was nine, see him playing in the yard and offer him a piece of candy or to pet the dog. He always took both offers. And, when he was older, she'd give him five dollars to mow her lawn, or manage her garden. He should've realized it by the pink tulips in the window - her favorite flowers.

Her name was Sarah, he remembered. She was friends with his dad.

And here she was.

Her eyes were wide open, the blues dull and staring straight through Stiles. Her neck had been slit, and blood rushed out of it by the gallon, a growing puddle of red staining the white tiles beneath her. Her stomach had been brutally slashed, lavender night gown torn and shredded. In her right hand was a knife, the tip glistening with _his_ blood. 

His breaths came in short and quick, the quiet huffs so very loud in the dead of night. His bloodied hands shook, and he was near collapsing.

Then, he heard the police sirens.

_It would be smart to flee,_ A voice in his head whispered, much more a command than a suggestion, _unless you would prefer to face the consequences._

Stiles gaped, his eyes never leaving the woman sprawled out on the floor. " _Why,_ " His voice was no more than a whisper. "Why did you do this?"

_We must leave,_ The Nogitsune whispered, tone serious as it's black tendrils snaked it's way up his limbs. _They're coming._

It wasn't lying. The sirens were louder now, and he dimly heard the sound of the cars approaching. But, he didn't feel like he could run. Not with the hole in his chest. Not with the image of Sarah Gwendolyn's body stuck in his mind.

_Yes, you can run._

Swallowing his worries, Stiles turned, adrenaline pushing him as he threw open the front door. He pulled the hood of the oversized sweatshirt over his head, grasping the strings and tightening them to make sure he wouldn't be seen. But, alas, he was seen.

The police sirens were right on him now, the red and blue flashing and lighting up his back. He didn't stop running, and distantly he heard a car down fly open, and his own father's voice screaming for him to put his hands up and stop running.

He didn't. And because of this, he was met with the sickening sound of a gunshot, and heard the bullet whizzing past his head. He ducked just in time to feel it hit a tree nearby.

_Fuck._

 

 

Stiles didn't know how long he was pursued. The only thing he did know was how good it felt to vomit, leaning on the rough bark of an oak tree as he emptied his stomach of it's meager contents. The image haunted him, scared him, and soon nothing was coming up. He hugged his stomach as he dry heaved, tears and snot and all the other gross, crying things snaking their way down his face. He felt sick. He felt weak. Light-headed.

Suddenly, he felt leaves on the side of his face. Or, in other words, he had suddenly fallen over, and was now sobbing and gagging and rolling around in absolute pain on the forest floor.

_Stiles.._ The Nogitsune cooed. It's voice wasn't raspy anymore, wasn't gravelly and deep. No. It was scary how much it was starting to sound like Stiles.

"Why her?" Stiles gasped, closing his eyes and trying to pretend like everything was fine. "Why did you kill her?"

No answer.

He shook his head frantically, each shaky breath sending waves of nausea and pain up his spine. He swore, fingers ghosting over the small, ragged hole in the lower side of the hoodie, where the fabric was all but dry. He pushed himself up with two hands, arms shaking and eventually collapsing from under him. He hit the ground with an undignified cry. 

"Why?" He hissed, raising his voice. "Why her? _Why?_ "

A beat.

_It was either her or Scott, Stiles,_ it whispered cooly. _What would you rather have - Scott dead, or the woman dead?_

The answer was easy.

"Th-the woman."

_Yes,_ it purred in agreement, and Stiles could practically feel the malicious grin form in his brain. _And that answer is exactly why I have decided to strike a deal._

"A deal?" He croaked, staring up at the stars, obscured by the trees.

_A deal,_ it reaffirmed. _You let me wreak as much havoc and misery as I want on your precious town-_

"No-!"

_Wait,_ it cut off, voice sharp. _You let me do my business, and I will leave your friends out of it. They will come to no harm, unless they choose to put themselves in my way._

Stiles let the offer sit in the air for a second, he blinked at the minuscule light the moon gave him, the eerie glow dancing off the brown leaves. 

"And if I don't accept?"

A laugh, a low, amused laugh. _If you don't accept,_ it started slowly, _then Scott, Derek, and all of your little friends will be dead by early light._

If he accepted, Scott would be safe. Derek would be safe. Everyone dear to him would be safe. No more Allisons, no more Aidens. If he accepted..

" _Shit,_ " Stiles seethed, brought out of his thoughts by a wave of pain. His pale fingers grasped wildly at the wound, and he coughed, tasting iron. Somehow, the blood from down there had made it all the way up his throat. "I'm going to die anyway," Stiles spat, a proud smile on his face, blood coating his teeth. "You can't find a new host. When I die, you die, so there's no deal to be made."

_Yes there is._ The Nogitsune responded much too calmly for the situation. Stiles rolled onto his back, kicking up leaves with his back arching as his torso screamed.

"It really doesn't s-seem so." He managed to grind out in between heaves, acutely aware of the cold sensations in his toes and fingertips, his weakening thrashes. "Th-that fucking old lady got y-you good, man."

_Last chance, Stiles._

The Nogitsune's voice began to fade out. His voice, but much colder, repeating those words. But, for lack of ADHD pills or blood circulation to his brain, he couldn't make them out anymore. Desperation grew in his heart as he realized he was going to die, and with his final breath, he breathed out the words.

" _Fine_."

The edges of his vision were dimming. Black tendrils curled around his eyes, and once again, everything was black.

 

 

"You're not dead, just.. resting."

Stiles's eyes opened, and he went to stand, but he found it impossible to move. He was back in the basement, back against the cool metal of the stairs. The Nogitsune stood in front of him, back facing him. It had completely disowned the old, bandaged form it had taken for years, choosing to sport Stiles's own body, unnaturally thin, pale, hair sticking up at odd angles. It tapped it's foot on the ground impatiently, arms crossed against it's chest in a gesture very familiar to Stiles.

"We're currently comatose. I've gathered enough strength to mend our wound, but it may take some time," the creature explained, sounding much too rational for the trickster Stiles knew and hated. "A few hours, or so. Not enough for any suspicion to arise, as long as our body is not found."

" _My_ body," Stiles corrected bitterly. "As long as _my_ body isn't found."

The Nogitsune snickered, bringing a hand up to hide it's laughter. "A pity, Stiles," it stated, turning on it's heel. "that you haven't accepted our connection yet."

Stiles narrowed his eyes in disgust as he was met with his own face, but twisted, scarred. It's eye was still missing, but the empty socket was dry of blood, scabbed over and left over stains scrubbed away. It's smile was still cut, but like the eye, healing. It's face was pale and hollowed, eyes holding a certain maliciousness Stiles could never hope to recreate himself. The creature was weak, as weak as it had been when they were separated and it was sapping Stiles's strength. It's eyes were sunken in, casting a purplish tint to the skin underneath and around. The bite mark on it's arm was still fresh as ever, it seemed, familiar stained bandages curled around the wound.

"You really are ugly," Stiles remarked, trying to force every bit of hostility he owned into his voice.

The Nogitsune scoffed. "It's your face," it bit back, scowling. 

A beat.

"Fair."

 

 

"Stiles, Stiles!"

Someone had him by the wrists, shaking him roughly, grip digging into the sore wounds on his arms. His eyes flew wide open, sunlight filtering through his eye lashes. Sunlight that was disturbed by the figure looming over him.

"Scott?" He groaned, voice cracking. He cleared his throat.

"Yeah! It's Scott. You know that lady down the street? Who used to give us candy?"

Stiles went pale.

"She's dead, Stiles. Someone killed her in her house last night."

Fuck. Not a dream, then.

Shaking off his shock, Stiles sat up, pushing Scott away. "Personal space," He murmured, bringing a hand up to run through his hair, which was, surprisingly, not as greasy as he last felt it. Actually, it was quite soft, like how it would be after he'd taken a shower.

Stiles stared at his hands.

Clean. Not splattered with red, smeared and stained. Clean.

He swallowed thickly, and realized he was in different clothes. His sleeping clothes. He didn't remember taking a shower, or throwing those on, or-

_Shit_.

Stiles scanned the room, and spotted the black sweatshirt half hidden under a sheet in his laundry basket. He made sure to not let his gaze linger on it for long, turning back to Scott and trying to look at least a slight bit lucid. 

"She's dead?" he asked, even though he knew the answer. "Murder?"

Scott nodded, eyes grim. "A break in," he explained. "someone came in, killed the dog, and then her."

Wait. Wait. _Wait_.

The dog?

"Oh my fucking shit," Stiles whispered, feeling the leftover vomit from the night before start to rise up through his throat. He jumped out of bed, not caring that he was just in his boxers as he raced to the nearest bathroom. His feet skidded on the floor as he threw himself over the toilet bowl, heaving.

_That poor fucking dog. Fuck. I did that._

_To be fair, I did that,_ suddenly, the voice was back again. _I made it easy, just stepped on the small thing. It was quick and merciful, it that brings you any solace._

"No, it doesn't!" He shouted, forgetting that Scott was rounding the corner. He shut up immediately when he realized, cursing himself endlessly for being so fucking stupid.

"What?" His best friend questioned, probably confused at the word gibberish he had just spouted. He took in a deep breath, trying to control his puking. He needed to learn to not do that. "What did you say?"

"This isn't right!" he said, shaking his head. Scott came and knelt beside him, placing a comforting hand on the small of his back. "The _dog?_ Who in their right mind kills a dog?"

The Nogitsune. But granted, it wasn't actually in it's right mind.

"I dunno, man, but we're gonna check it out." For about the tenth time since he awoken, Stiles tensed. "Lydia saw it coming like ten minutes before it happened, and called the police. They didn't get there in time."

He could feel the bullet flying past his ear, lodging itself into a tree as he threw himself into the forest.

"Yeah. That's," he paused, swallowing and reaching up to flush the toilet. "uh, sad."

Scott nodded, removing his hand as Stiles leaned against the bath tub. "Really is," He muttered. Then, he sighed. "So, me and Derek were thinking of going to track the guy down. Your dad says he ran into the woods, which should be super easy for us. But I uh, wanted you to come." He paused. "Are you fine with that? Derek's, uh, coming."

Stiles narrowed his eyes. "Why wouldn't I be fine with that?"

"Uh," Scott continued like Stiles was the crazy one, "You and Derek kind of had a fight? Remember that? About him babying you?"

Welp. Another thing the Nogitsune messed up, something he had no memory of.

"Oh, yeah, it's fine," He promised, sending a weak smile toward his best friend. "That really was a uh, petty fight. I don't hold a grudge."

"You sure? It seemed pretty serious."

Stiles scoffed. "Yeah, Scott, I'm sure."

Silence, only broken by the sound of wind whistling through a window somewhere in the house.

Scott exhaled deeply. "That poor woman."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am sorry the nogitsune is so ooc. it's like. starting to adapt to it's surroundings, you get me? it has to accurately pretend it's stiles so it's kinda merging his personality with it's own. but, due to that, it kinda acts like the squip now. which is probably because of me listening to be more chill music while i write this, which i shouldn't be doing because it is totally making the nogitsune ooc. but i love the squip's dynamic so this might just be how it be


	6. Sensations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oof. sorry this is so long. and that i took so damn long.

The slice in his abdomen was very much gone, but the scar wasn't.

Whatever the Nogitsune had pulled out of it's sleeve had worked, but not the way he'd thought. He'd expected it to be gone, completely disappeared with no sign of an injury ever being there. Instead, there was a ragged, pink-twinged scar tracing the space above his hip.

He let his fingers ghost over what had before been a fatal wound, touch trailing against the smooth skin. Yeah, this wasn't going away any time soon.

_It's not magic,_ the Nogitsune spat in response to his thoughts, _I just-_

"Yeah, just shut up. I really don't care." He sighed, running his hands down his chest, feeling each and every little bump of his skeleton. He frowned, knowing that this was probably super bad, but he really couldn't find it in himself to even care. With having to clean the lab at school during lunch and all the extra _activities_ he was getting up to, he really didn't have the time to eat, and it didn't bother him. But, it was showing.

_It's fine, I've seen worse._

He shook his head, staring at the scar stretched tight against his skinny frame. The healed slashes on his arms, the short, thick lines on his knuckles. Even the dull light scar under his hairline from the impact with the bathroom floor. Apparently, whatever the Nogitsune did to him had healed all those, too, leaving behind light pink irritated marks that he would never be rid of.

A knock on the bathroom door awoke him from his thoughts, and he flinched, arms flying back to his sides. The floor creaked from outside, someone standing behind it.

"You almost ready?" Scott asked, voice cautious. "Derek's here, and he's getting kinda impatient."

Stiles rolled his eyes. "Yeah, just changing," he muttered. It wasn't a lie, not really, especially truthful as he slid a dull green long sleeve shirt over his head. "Tell him to calm his shit." He quiped, before looking at himself in the mirror and fluffing up his hair one or two times. Then, he exited.

Scott was still standing outside, and Stiles immediately recognized an underlying concern in his brown eyes that washed away when he stepped out. Was anyone going to trust him on his own ever again?

"I will pass that information on to him, thanks, Stiles." Scott replied sarcastically, shrugging on a jacket.

Stiles looked around, and felt himself looking for Derek - someone he hadn't seen for a long time, and apparently, the last time they did see each other was when they were at each other's throats. Or, at least, the Nogitsune was at Derek's throat.

Made sense. It wasn't like the kitsune was fond of Derek in any manner. Quite the opposite of fond, actually.

"So, where is he?" Stiles pondered, following Scott down the stairs. "Outside? Probably leaning on his car, scowling?"

His words were met with laughter, and he felt an honest smile play on his lips. And, when they finally got outside, Derek was indeed leaning on his car. Signature scowl worked into his features, arms crossed. Stiles smirked. Good old Derek. Sadly, his nostalgic enthusiasm wasn't reciprocated. There was a sort of rough prodding suspicion deep in Derek's eyes, and not the normal kind. The kind he'd seen before - when his girlfriend was revealed to be sort of an evil witch who had tried to murder Lydia.

Stiles couldn't find himself to smile under that gaze. The entity inside squirmed, agitation lashing up his arms.

_He suspects us._

"We're bringing Stiles?" Derek almost snapped, voice sharp. At the sound of his voice, Stiles could feel the Nogitsune shift even more recklessly inside of him, irritation and annoyance rushing up through his veins by the gallon.

"Stiles has seen the police reports, Derek," Scott bit back roughly, taking a step in front of his best friend. "He can better lead us to the general area the guy was seen going."

Stiles nodded, crossing his own arms even though he knew very well the only leading he would be doing was in the wrong direction. The Nogitsune would kill them if they got in it's way, and Stiles couldn't very well have that. So, he was going to do his best to be decieving.

When he fled the scene that fateful night, he had been running in a good northwest direction. He had arrived in a clearing he was quite familiar with, one he and Scott used to play in when they were young. Now, though, he’d have to flip the truth completely around.

“They were last seen moving northeast," Stiles informed, considering ducking his head to avoid Derek’s sharp glare. “The suspect was probably male, coming from the description.” He swallowed nervously, pushing down a bit of the panic that arose at the thought of describing himself.

_Then don’t_ , the Nogitsune purred, tone slightly aloof. The earlier aggression sat idle in the dark. _Describe someone else. We have the ability, and the blame is so easily shifted._

_But who?_ Stiles thought back, clearing his throat as a guise to why he was taking so long to continue. _I don’t want to, like, blame an actual person._

_Then make someone up._

_Glad I'm good at improvising._

“Stiles?” Derek was snapping his fingers in the younger’s face, eyes holding that held back concern Stiles had become so acquainted with.

“Oh, yes,” Stiles practically blurted, a sheepish smile growing on his lips. Derek pulled his hand away, frowning. “I haven’t taken my meds in awhile, I guess, sorry for spacing out.”

“Stiles-” Scott began, probably to convince him to go take them, but Stiles put his hand up to stop him.

“No, it’s fine,” he assured. “We can’t waste any time on that, we gotta find this old-lady killer before he strikes again.” The words hurt coming out of his mouth, but he knew it was for the best.

Convinced, the trio finally climbed into the car, exchanging the smallest amount of words possible as the eldest started the engine.

“So,” Scott shuffled in his spot, turning to look at his best friend who, of course, was in the back seat. “What’s our guy look like?”

Admittedly, Stiles had quite a short amount of time to think up something, but once again he was glad he was blessed with superb improvisational skills. 

“So there were two reports,” he started, the first truthful words running easy on his tongue. “One from a neighbor, and another from the cops that were on sight. Both aren’t very conflicting, thankfully.

“First up is my dad's, the one who shot at the guy” _bullet whizzing past his head, mere inches from his skin_ , “and almost, uh, hit him. Apparently, he seemed around 6’3”, pretty tall, right? He was wearing normal robber clothes, dark hoodie, tattered jeans. Dad said the hoodie barely fit his broad-ass shoulders, too.” Another lie. A good lie. In truth, his dad had actually said the hoodie hung to the guy like he was a skeleton underneath, which hit scarily close to home. “All the officers that were with him said the same, or something super similar, but none added anything more to what happened.

“The next guy was the lady’s neighbor. He walked her dog for her on the regular, since the old woman was too frail to do so anymore. He was on his way home after bringing the dog back to her house, when he spotted a strange man entering her backyard. He said the assailant was white, with short, dirty-blond hair, maybe a little stubble. But that’s all he could make out in the dark.”

They would never know he was describing Chris Hemsworth.

“Wow,” Scott managed, frowning. “So you think this was just a one time thing? Like a burglary gone wrong?”

“I mean, probably,” Stiles answered quickly. “But it’s still worth checking out, right?”

“We should make sure it was a one time thing,” For a second, Scott seemed appalled at Derek’s agreement, but the expression soon changed to one of seriousness. 

“Yeah, just to make sure this guy is human.”

Stiles’s fists involuntarily clenched by his sides. _This guy_ is _a human,_ he thought, _and he’s in the backseat._ He needed to stop feeling guilty. People were dying, yes, but at least all his friends were out of the line of fire. That was what he should have been focused on, but for some reason he couldn’t seem to do it.

 

_Oh no,_ Stiles thought in a panic, eyes wide. _Fucking shit._

“We can go west afterward,” Stiles practically pleaded, the Nogitsune pulling the desperation out of his voice via request. “First we should all just check the east, then we could walk west on our way back.”

“It’ll be dark by then!” Derek all but shouted. “More dangerous, too. It would be better if I just checked it alone.”

Stiles started to feel odd, the familiar sensation of something seeing through his eyes sending chills down his back. His eyes widened by a small fraction but he tried to ignore it, sending an unheard message to the creature living in his brain to back off. "Alone isn't good, if it's just me and Scott-" he tried to say, but was cut off.

"Are you sure it's just _you_ and _Scott_?"

The question was left to hang for a moment, but the rising tension in the area did not fall. It increased considerably, in fact. Stiles's fingers curled by his side, not by his own doing. Then, Scott piped up.

"Come on, man, that's a little harsh," Scott tried, the werewolf attempting to be the voice of reason and understandably failing. “But, it _would_ be faster if we split up.”

“Haven’t you seen horror movies?” Stiles retaliated fiercely, not allowing Derek's words to plague his mind. The Nogitsune helped, soaking up every ounce of thought he could possibly think about having to do with the question. But, it's grasp only grew by doing so, and Stiles's posture got tighter, taller, unwillingly. “Spliting up is what gets you killed. We could be walking back, and there would be Derek’s body, all bloody and- _a-a-and_ -" His voice faltered, and he felt his vocal cords, for lack of a better term, turn off for a second. Then, he looked up, but not on his own accord. His mouth opened, and, "- _dead!_ ”

The last word wasn’t his, no; he was no longer in control of his body. He let it happen, for once in his life, he didn’t fight for control. The Nogitsune was only taking over to _get_ control of the situation, for better or worse.

Everyone paused like he’d just said the most shocking thing in the world, despite what Derek said before. Tears crept into his eyes, but he didn’t feel like weeping. His bodily functions, like crying, were controlled also by the Nogitsune, then. Derek watched him with wide, green eyes, and Stiles felt himself wipe hastily at the moisture on his face.

“Whatever,” he heard himself say, turning in the direction of east without even needing to look at the compass on his phone. “If you get k-killed, you know, it’s not my problem.” Even a stutter could be replicated with ease. He physically felt eyes boring into his back as he went, and heard Scott catch up with him - or, perhaps, the not-him.

“You know, Derek’s not gonna die, right?” He said, a few feet behind the not-Stiles as he spoke. “He’s not gonna let that happen to him, especially faced with some dude with a dinky little knife."

"Yeah, whatever," Not-him responded, apparently using it's new favorite teenage word. "Let's just go look for this guy, maybe stay quiet to hear if he's near. Alright?"

Scott stayed silent for a moment, before he hummed in agreement.

Stiles felt his body sway for a moment, before his foot stepped subtly off the trail a small bit. He felt the small click as something was pushed into place under his shoe, sending an object whizzing through the air.

Stiles's heart almost stopped, before he once again realized that that whizzing was different than the whizzing of a bullet.

The Nogitsune threw his body to the side, grasping Scott around the shoulders as he shoved him to the ground forcefully. Scott yelled out in protest before he too registered the whizzing, and went flat to the ground on instinct.

He waited for the thump of the arrow hitting a tree before he untensed.

"He knew we were coming," Scott spit out, heavy breathing to match Stiles's as they stared in the direction the arrow came. "He set _traps_." It wasn't the first time the Nogitsune had used arrows set up in the woods before. He hoped Scott didn't make that connection. "We have to keep going!" The alpha continued with a tone of confidence, jumping up off the ground and unceremoniosuly shoving Stiles to the side onto the crinkled leaves. "This is the way he went; we just have to keep an eye open for-"

"We should get Derek to help," His voice answered, and Stiles finally realized what the Nogitsune had been trying to do, and miraculously accomplished. "We know the guy went this way, so it's no use checking the other path." He pushed himself off the ground, doing it much faster than real, weakling Stiles could probably ever do. Good thing Scott wasn't looking.

His best friend nodded, agreeing with the trickster's words. "Yeah, yeah, I'll go get him, quick." His gaze turned in the direction of what Stiles assumed to be Derek's scent, far away but near enough to still smell with enhanced senses. "Just. Stay here quick. And when we come back" he glared at Stiles, "please don't fight."

Not-him nodded, a smile drifting across pink lips. Internally, real-Stiles groaned.

When he was sure Scott was gone, dark tendrils unfurled, and Stiles felt his will thrown back into his hands.

"Jesus, you frickin' suck at playing me," Stiles quipped out loud, knowing the dark kitsune inside of him could hear. "You said whatever, like, two times in a straight row. Not every teenager is an apathy filled asshole."

_It works, does it not?_ The Nogitsune expressed, it's voice still Stiles's but the complete opposite at the same time. He shuddered, then frowned.

"I mean, I guess. But it's not me, man."

_Whatever,_ it mocked in a sweet voice.

This wasn't right, Stiles knew. It was so wrong. He shouldn't be having somewhat playful banter with the creature of his nightmares, but his personality betrayed him. He couldn't rid himself of the cynical-ness. Subconsciously he hoped the Nogitsune would keep saying whatever, maybe tip someone off that he wasn't him, but it wasn't likely to happen. No matter how much he prayed that he'd be run through like Allison and Aiden, finally destroying the trickster spirit inside.

Of course, these thoughts were on display for said entity to hear.

_You can't rid of me,_ it hissed, voice bordering on angry. _If you even begin to try, I will-_

"Flay my friends, I understand," he responded listlessly, buttoning and unbuttoning his sleeve cuff as a nervous habit. "Tear them to pieces. I can't help thinking that, you know. I'm still all for this agreement, but my self-preservation instincts can't help themselves." he shrugged. "So really, just ignore it. I mean, I do."

"Stiles, who are you talking to?" 

Stiles froze and turned around, trying to put the mask back over his features. "Myself," He answered smoothly. "Complaining about you-" he pointed to Derek, "-and boasting about me being right." 

Derek's scowl grew, but in a more amused way. He seemed to be on much better terms with Stiles now, indicated by the way his gaze didn't throw daggers in his direction, nor was even somewhat suspicious anymore. The Nogitsune's words had worked, like always. The creature had a silver-tongue to rival any of the slimy persuasive creatures they'd met. He'd been able to talk Stiles into killing several someones, convince Derek that his act was cleaned up, and almost silence Scott's concern. It was crazy.

"Riddle me this," Stiles started, walking toward the two werewolves with a spring in his step. "How does one man, in one night, kill someone, get stabbed, escape the cops, run through the woods, and set up an elaborate trap?" he motioned toward the arrow in the tree, it's bright purple feathers stark against the dull wood. "It doesn't make sense. Especially that there was no trip wire."

Scott hummed in thought, before he nodded. "Yeah, did we do anything to set it off?" 

Stiles feigned thinking as well, having his eyes trail to the direction of which the arrow came. "I mean, I didn't, but I can't say the same for you. Did you?"

Scott shrugged. "No."

Stiles nodded, whirling around to face Derek. "And you weren't there, so, that leaves one more person."

"One more person?" Scott repeated, confused.

"The murderer must be watching us."

His proposal wasn't met with denial, like usual. Scott and even Derek seemed to immediately grow ten times more aware of their surroundings, feet sliding into a position better for defending. Stiles chuckled.

"I was joking," he lied, playing along. "You don't have to freak out like that." 

Derek shook his head, sharp green gaze surveying the trees around. "No, and no matter how much I hate to say it, you're on to something." He walked forward, ripping the arrow out of the tree trunk with as little effort as a normal person would picking up a twig. "If none of you triggered this in any way or form, it must've been set off. Manually. Which either means the guy is here, or has cameras someplace set up."

"Well, shit," Stiles murmured, the Nogitsune sending a chill down his back. It was weird how well they were working together, barely exchanging words. But, it was for the best. He wouldn't have to see Scott or Derek or anyone close to him gutted like a fish. "I definitely feel even more uncomfortable than I did when we first got here."

"He can't be near," Scott muttered, a primal sort of expression drifting over his face as he repeated Derek's actions. "I don't smell anyone."

"Yeah, me neither," Derek affirmed, shifting his stance. "Cameras, then."

"Do you guys want to look, or do you want me to tip off my dad?" Stiles smirked, crossing his arms.

Derek's scowl returned, and he nodded grimly. "Tip off your dad."

 

Stiles did not tip off his dad.

In fact, when returned to his house, he walked right passed the man, barely exchanging pleasantries as he marched up to his room, claiming being too tired to converse.

When he arrived in the safe space, he sighed, glancing at the newly unglued shut window and the darkening skies outside. A sense of foreboding swept over him, and he swallowed, metaphorical pink waves splashing past his psyche.

He felt hot breaths over his ear, faint, incomprehensible whispering sending actual chills down his back. He turned, but saw no one, nothing but the faint glowing of his laptop screen with a battery low alert.

"What?" he spat bitterly, knowing full well who - or what - was the cause of this.

_Be ready,_ the creature declared, voice loud. _We strike tonight._

"Another one?" Stiles whispered, now used to hearing his own voice directed at him. "Already?"

The Nogitsune nodded, and for some reason Stiles knew that - it took him a second to realize that it had nodded for him. _Yes, already,_ it confirmed quickly. _That was the price, a life a night in exchange for your friends._

Stiles was already fuming; that had _not_ been the agreement in any way. "You just said I'd have to cause some chaos. Nothing about- about _killing_ someone every single night," he struggled to keep his voice down, knowing very well his father was right downstairs. "That's crazy. Too much. How about, like, someone every.. week? Maybe month?"

The Nogitsune hummed in thought, the noise reverberating throughout Stiles's skull. _Perhaps,_ it murmured, squirming under his skin. _Perhaps we can make a counter agreement._

Something like hope lit in Stiles's heart, but he knew it wasn't that. Hope was absent in his life. He'd assured that the night of the first death, when he'd made a deal with a creature he could only relate to a demon. 

"Like what?" he breathed, trying to force some optimism into his tone. "An agreement?"

_Weekly,_ it declared, _But you'll have to do something for me. Tonight._

Stiles rolled his eyes, throwing himself onto his bed. He shoved his face into his pillow, curling the soft blankets around his thin body and relishing in the heat it brought. "What? What do you want?" He moaned, rolling onto his side and pulling the covers over his nose.

_One more death. Tonight._ it insisted. 

Stiles shook his head no, but ultimately he opened his mouth, voice quiet. "Fine."

A wave of satisfaction rushed through his body, and he shuddered, wishing the feeling away. Despite his pleas, the Nogitsune didn't let up.

He peeled himself off the bed and walked over to the blood stained sweatshirt lying in his hamper.

 

Stiles knew he looked crazy. His hair was an absolute mess, sticking out from under his hood despite his attempts to calm it, and his sweatshirt hung limply off his frame. His pallor was ghostly, his weariness showing in the purple stains under his frantic eyes. He walked with a frigid calmness, body movements calculated and quick. He held two knives, ones he had stolen from a restaurant across town. Stiles was only a vessel, a thin film of humanity working as a host for the kitsune inside. The spiritual embodiment of a rabid fox.

He watched behind glass eyes as he approached a house from a place he'd never been to. He didn't know how the Nogitsune chose it's victims, but he was glad it was somebody he'd never seen before this time. The thought brought guilt from deep in his heart, but he dismissed it. Guilt didn't have a place in this scenario. 

The house was painted the color of a robin's egg, situated on the edge of the nature preserve so it was surrounded by trees on three sides, facing the road. The porch was a sweet ivory color, wooden with carvings that said something he didn't have the time to ponder on. The porch light was off, as was every light in the near vicinity, save for the light posts sat near the road. There was no sign of any kind of dog or animal, which Stiles was eternally grateful of.

Slinking up, the Nogitsune moved his bones like a shadow, sticking to the darkness where he couldn't be seen, keeping his face down as to not be recognized. A sick smile sat upon it's face the entire time, malicious excitement hidden in his lips. It felt so wrong in his body, but for the last time he'd remind himself; this was for the best. Everyone he loved would be safe if this went on. And anyways, after this, the killings would become sparse enough to be considered merciful.

_God, I'm starting to sound like it._

"It's for the best," the creature consoled, voice silent enough to be mistaken for the quiet hiss of the late night wind. "We must work as one if we are to succeed."

_You would succeed even if I didn't cooperate. That's just how possession works._

A laugh, more easily classified as a murrow, echoed from beneath the Nogitsune's grin. "Yes. You understand."

The creature crawled near the ground by the side of the house, fingers trailing across the criss-cross wood before it came upon a bump. Then, it twisted its fingernails underneath, ripping the wood away with brute strength Stiles never thought he would have. He barely felt the aching of his nails being pulled almost hard enough to separate from the skin.

Ah. It was hollow underneath there. One of _those_ houses, then.

Akin to a spider, the Nogitsune slithered underneath the wood, neatly placing it back once fully submerged. It was dark, and if it was not for the dirt underneath his palms he would assume he was in a cell.

_What are you doing?_ Stiles wondered absently, back muscles aching from being so awkwardly crouched over.

"There is an entrance," The Nogitsune explained calmly, dropping onto it's hands and knees to creep forward, once again placing it's fingers on a small, almost indistinguishable gap in the wood above.

A latch. The Nogitsune unlocked it, and pushed up a small, square door into what appeared to be a laundry room.

Wonderful.

It climbed up over the edge, pulling Stiles's entire body weight with just one hand. It closed the little entrance with a quiet tap, covering the thing back up with a bundle of soft clothes. 

The house smelled of cinnamon, enough to burn Stiles's nostrils. Distantly, he wondered why, or if it was just a preference to have your house reeking like an over saturated christmas morning.

The Nogitsune stood, craftily tip-toeing throughout the house. For the most part it was softly carpeted, drowning out Stiles's footsteps. He thanked it, and even when they approached something that stood out as a bedroom door, he held onto that assurance.

The door slowly creaked open, the noise unnaturally loud.

In the bed was a singular person, an unfamiliar young man, black hair falling over his eyes as he quietly breathed, deep in sleep. Stiles crept forward, eyes trained on the man's peaceful stature, his sharp shoulders and ivory skin. A color to match the wood of the porch, the pinprick of a lonesome star, or the sharp teeth of a predator's snarl.

_Peaceful._

The facade didn't last. Almost as quick as they'd entered the house, the man shot up, a shiny bat previously hidden under the covers now slamming across his face.

The pain was, momentarily, unbearable. A tooth bit roughly into his skin, iron pooling onto his tongue, and he thanked the lord none of them broke. Explosions of hurt he recognized as pre-bruising stabbed up the side of his face, anywhere where bones stuck out just a bit too much. Which, for his naturally sharp-featured face, was a lot. He felt the skin break on his cheek as another hit rained down, the guy screaming something incomprehensible as he attacked.

The Nogitsune didn't take the time to escape and recover - it didn't feel Stiles's pain, at least not at the degree the human did. When the man went back for a third strike, his hand shot out, grasping the bat around the middle mid-hit and holding it steady.

The man stared at Stiles, frightened hazel eyes round and shocked. It only took a second for Stiles to realize he, in fact, did know this guy - a boy, now that he thought of it. A freshman who played baseball, held back a year in middle school. Terrence something.

"Stiles?"

He only had a second to breathe out his name, confused and scared before the Nogitsune ripped the bat heartlessly out of Terrence's grip, slamming the wood back into the poor kid's face. He contemplated pleading with the trickster to spare the boy's life, but he knew it would be in vain. He'd already seen Stiles's face. He hoped to make it quick and easy, which it would be with just him-

_Just him?_ A flicker of fear ignited in Stiles's heart. 

"His parents are out," The Nogitsune muttered, much to Terrence's confusion. "No need to fret."

Then, he waltzed over to their victim, who was on his hands and knees, cupping his face and spitting out watery blood. The same thing that happened to Stiles, then. But he wasn't spitting it out, and in fact, he felt it running down his chin in thick lines.

"Stiles? Why, why are you doing this?" Terrence pleaded, turning his head to glance at where Stiles stood, Nogitsune letting the bat trail on the ground as he walked forward, head cocked and eyes unfeeling. "Did I do something? Say something? Please, whatever it is, I'm sorry-"

Stiles had probably only ever talked to the guy once. And even then, it was only a few quick, passing words.

The Nogitsune crouched in front of him, head still slightly tilted to the side, like a predator examining it's prey. Terrence flipped onto his front, pushing his back against his dark wooden nightstand. Then, the trickster outstretched his open hand, a sweet smile growing on pale lips.

"I forgive you," it mouthed, Stiles's voice much too steady. Tears grew in his eyes, but the Nogitsune didn't even try to stop them. "Come on, I'll get you up."

It was a trick. Of course it was a trick. He dropped the bat, and felt the smooth hilt of a knife slide down his sleeve and into his fingers.

Shakily, Terrence accepted the hand. His eyes echoed with distrust, and for good reason.

The knife easily found it's way into the boy's abdomen, the exact spot where Stiles had been stabbed before. He gasped, like a fish out of water, and went down to grab at the blade, but the Nogitsune had other plans.

_Please,_ Stiles thought rapidly, feeling the tears fall more freely. _Make it quick. Please, please give him just a little mercy. He's just a kid._

"I'm afraid that wasn't our agreement," The Nogitsune spoke clearly this time, his soft smile spreading back to it's long, twisted and greedy one. 

The scream that echoed from Terrence's voice would forever haunt Stiles's dreams. The Nogitsune grasped him by the shoulder and pushed him against the bedside, pulling the blade across his stomach gorily. A laugh bubbled up in it's chest as it watched the blood rush out by the gallon, staining the plaid bedclothes adorning their victim's figure. He twisted the blade constantly, giggling like a child with it's first toy as it went back and forth, the carpet turning a sick crimson as the torture session went on. The Nogitsune dug it's hands into his stomach, warm and slimy masses meeting his fingers. Vomit died in Stiles's throat as the creature inside of him grabbed hold of something and pulled, an organ of some kind trailing out of the rip in the boy's shirt. He pulled and pulled and pulled until various blobs Stiles couldn't focus on without becoming dizzy littered the floor by his knees, his stomach churning and begging for release.

Finally, Terrence seemed to slump in the Nogitsune's grasp. Then, it removed the knife and stabbed twice in each side of the boy's chest, each lung. Their victim - and that was what Stiles needed to refer to him as - immediately awoke, even more blood gurgling up into his throat and spilling down his chin. 

Another deep, villainous laugh tore from Stiles's lips, and he was unable to stop it. A strong, pleasurable feeling started to rush through him, the Nogitsune's fingers digging into Terrence's shoulder. He slouched over, staring blindly at the knife wet with blood as what Stiles could only relate to a moan came from his mouth. The snakes around his muscles tightened, their fangs digging deeper and deeper into Stiles's brain. He could only watch and struggle as yet another realization hit him- this was how the Nogitsune got more powerful. Chaos, pain, and strife.

Scott, the sword through his chest. 

It all made sense.

"Yes," The Nogitsune wailed, hysteria eating up it's voice, mingling with the broken howls of the man before it. " _YES!_ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments r vry appreciated. i don't really like replying cause i feel suuuper awkward doing it for some reason. i usually acknowledge comments in my notes tho
> 
> (( also; the nogitsune is getting even more ooc. it's like a cross between the squip and avengers-era loki. which is kinda accurate i guess ))
> 
> (( also x2; another reason this took so long was because i watched infinity war. and my favorite character died. immediately. in the first ten minutes. and i couldn't stop crying for like a week and a half at the slightest mention of him, im not kidding. also i wont spoil u without a warning ))


	7. Senseless

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ooof this sucks. sorry it's so like,,,, bad.

The Nogitsune didn't let him go until he was back in his house, and right when his full control was released, he felt sobs building up.

Firstly, he ran to the nearest trash can and collapsed, vomiting up whatever meager contents his stomach held. His breath hitched and he shuddered, trying to wipe the memories of the fourteen year old's intestines splayed out before him, held loosely in his bloody hands. Bone, muscle, sinew all hanging out of the boy's stomach, the gleeful chirps of the creature holding his will hostage, utterly overjoyed at this display of gore. His stomach cramped again, but nothing came up. He knew he needed to stop this reaction, this sick feeling at the sight of the Nogitsune's games. But he didn't feel he could.

Covering his mouth with a hand reeking of iron, he tiptoed up the stairs, minding the ones that would creak and praying to god his father wouldn't hear his gags and muffled sobs. He couldn't seem to stop them, either, but for once he didn't want to ask the Nogitsune to stop them. He was utterly disgusted with the kitsune, more so than he'd ever been. That thing, the thing that took joy in seeing a boy's organs hanging out of his chest, was _inside of him_.

The cut in his mouth stung and so did the one on his cheek, the bruises he'd expected already a sickly violet. His fingernails still had a slight ache and he did something to his leg during the struggle. It could've been how hard the Nogitsune ran back home, forgetting the weak and broken thing it was inhabiting. Whatever the cause of it was, every time he took a step, a sharp pain reverberated from his knee to his hip. It wasn't pleasant, but certainly wasn't the first thing on Stiles's mind.

He limped into his room, pulling the door shut and locking it, cringing at the bloody hand print he left on the handle. He remembered a moment like this; after he'd been kidnapped by Gerard Argent. Arriving at his house as unceremoniously as he could muster, throwing on a smile to mask his pain as his father's eyes widened in concern and relief at the same time. But, this time, there was no father standing in his room, worried sick. No Gerard Argent, no humble smile. 

Everything had changed so much since then.

Now, there were tears, muffled cries and blood, so much blood it almost dripped off him. A scarily thin body covered only by a thick stained sweatshirt instead of a jersey, and a creature capable of controlling his every action dug deep into his psyche. A creature that had compelled him to kill innocents to protect his friends.

_God, what have I done?_

Stiles pulled off the hoodie as quickly as possible, throwing it roughly back into the laundry basket where it belonged. The t-shirt underneath was thankfully mostly clean, only a few speckles of subtle red spotting the collar. He shook his head at the sight, grabbing a dirty towel to wipe the rest of Terrence the fourteen year old baseball player with his whole life ahead of him's blood off his sore face.

The towel was no doubt ruined, but after he was somewhat relieved by the dulling of the blood coating him he flopped back down into bed. The blankets greeted him like an old friend, mattress bending in that perfect way under his small weight. Any other time, he would have smiled. But now, all he could do was shove a pillow over his face, muffling his sobs as much as possible at the uselessness of it all.

Suddenly, he was back on the hospital roof.

He felt the cool metal rubbing against his temple, the soft incline of the trigger against his finger. Loaded, ready to be fired. The wind whipping at his hair, heels almost teetering over the edge. Blood draining from his arms, long, stinging wounds deep enough to kill. So, _so_ close, but then-

Scott's hand, the gunshot, and the sound of the weapon clattering on the parking lot more than a hundred feet below.

_Why did I hesitate?_ he found himself asking. _Why didn't I end it when I had the chance?_

Then, he remembered Scott's eyes, wide and teary as he begged for his best friend's life. He dismissed it; Scott didn't understand. Scott never understood. 

_I was foolish to think everything could be fine._

"Son?"

Stiles's breath hitched and quieted at his father's voice, the soft wrapping of knuckles against his door. He pulled the pillow down his face so his eyes were exposed, staring at the source of the noise like there was a nightmarish monster standing right there. He'd entirely forgotten about his dad, passing his room and freely crying like he was the only one in the house. It was his fault, his _fault_ he got his dad's attention, his fault he wasn't _quiet_ enough-

Stiles's sobbing got much louder. He slapped a hand over his mouth, forgetting the pillow, taking his gaze away from the door in favor of boring holes into the ceiling.

The doorknob rattled. "Stiles?" Came his dad's voice, loud and frantic. "Stiles, what's going on?"

Stiles looked over himself. Sweaty old green t-shirt he wore the day before, blood stained ragged jeans, and equally stained now converse shoes. He, on instinct, pushed them off and kicked them to the floor.

"I- I'm fine, dad," Stiles choked out, words wavering. "I'm, I'm having a- a bad t-time. I j-just wanna go to bed. Okay?" He hugged the pillow, squeezing tears out of his eyes and breathing in deep, trying to calm himself.

"Stiles," his dad's voice was more of a warning than anything. "You're not-"

Stiles shook his head at no one. "I'm not doing a-anything, dad. Just trying to stop- stop crying." 

"Stiles, you know you can talk to me, right?" It was nothing more than a whisper. Stiles wanted to shout yes, scream it, but he couldn't force the words out of his mouth. "If you ever need to talk, I'm here. Don't do anything you'll regret."

"I'm a teenager. We always do stuff we regret." he quipped in response, but immediately he knew it wasn't taken as well as he'd hoped. His voice lacked it's usual tone, the sharp cynicality replaced with a muddled, shaky sarcasm he couldn't replace. "I love you, dad." He reiterated, taking in another deep breath. His sobs were starting to calm, and his sudden gasps of breath were starting to cease. 

"I know," his father responded loosely. "Hey, you get some sleep now. Okay?"

Stiles nodded, thin fingers tracing the hot, swollen skin on his cheek. "Okay."

"Can you go to school tomorrow?" 

Stiles bit his lip. He didn't want to. Physically, he felt unable to, but he knew if he didn't it would raise red flags. People, or more specifically his pack, would immediately notice it and connect the dots. He had to be there, maintaining his act, playing the role he was forced to play. 

Finally, he opened his mouth, momentarily afraid his father had taken his lack of a response as a no and left. "Y-yeah, yeah I can go," he affirmed, feeling dry blood flake off his skin from his touch. 

"Okay, son. I'm right down the hall if you need me."

"I know."

Stiles sniffled, cursing his inability to stop himself from weeping. He should've just bit his tongue and asked for help. Which was what he would probably have to do now. Of course, he couldn't go in front of his friends with a fucked up face and expect them to not ask.

_Bite your tongue,_ Stiles repeated to himself, _and ask._

With the simple thought, Stiles felt the small cut underneath his fingertips close, flesh sealing together like it was some sort of magic. The heat he'd felt earlier left, replaced with his usual unnaturally cold body temperature. He was surprised, but also ashamed. He was getting help from the creature that disemboweled children for fun.

_I will keep you wound free for the entirety of tomorrow to conceal your true pain, Stiles._ The Nogitsune. Back in his head, speaking as if what had happened never did. _I am sorry I disgust you this much, but that will soon change. To work well, we must understand each other's pleasures. I can only wish to ask you to understand mine._

Stiles scoffed out loud, hysteria starting to seep back into his voice. " _Understand?_ " he whispered. "How can I possibly begin to understand how you think it's fun to fucking _gut_ a _teenager?_ "

_Just like how I can understand why you find it so appealing to be in the arms of that wolf, or really to be under his grasp at all,_ the Nogitsune rebuked. Stiles tensed; he didn't know it could feel that. He found himself unable to look away from the ceiling, the intricate patterns the mismatched paint job made on the stone. His cheeks heated up, but not because of any bruises. _It truly is interesting what you harbor for that man. You silently beg to be back in his embrace. I once believed it to be the banshee, but I was mistaken, it seems._ A small, furrowed laugh echoed through the annals of Stiles's mind, and he curled his hands around his head.

" _Stop,_ " he practically begged, not ready to face those feelings. "Just stop. You're crazy, you're meant to be crazy. I understand, it's your nature. Just stop talking about _that_."

Another one of those condescending laughs. Stiles bristled.

_As you wish,_ the creature responded amusedly. _I respect your taste, but I do not agree either._ The Nogitsune's tone got harsher. _He is an abomination. I do not see what you see._

Desperate to change the topic of conversation with the fox spirit serial killer inside his head, he smirked. "Technically, you see exactly what I see.

The Nogitsune laughed that same laugh, but more.. mutual? Less directed at Stiles's human incompetence, more at his words. As if it were enjoying them. As if they were bonding.

Something about that felt so terribly wrong, but he washed away those feelings as quick as possible, so the Nogitsune would not take notice.

_You are amusing._ it stated, and Stiles's mind flashed back to the rooftop, something going off in his brain. He was confused; what was that? He felt the gun back in his hand, the wind in his hair, Scott sounded incomprehensibly. He went to pull the trigger, but his finger didn't move, didn't move until Scott knocked the pistol away. Like something delayed it.

_I'm glad I kept you._

 

Exhaustion was the only reason he slept. Even then, the only sleep he got was fretful. He decided to stop trying at around five, an hour until his alarm would ring to alert him he needed to go to school. He crept into the bathroom, making sure his father wasn't there to see the splatters adorning his face and arms. Then, he got in the shower.

Water felt good. He hadn't taken one in what felt like years, and his body thanked him for finally cleaning it. Especially with this recent addition to his problems; the blood. He scrubbed and scrubbed at his hands and arms and everything until there was no sign of it, but even then, flashes of his fingers coated thickly with a ruby-red fluid permeated his brain.

When he stepped out, he tried not to linger on his scars for very long. He didn't want to be late to school because because he couldn't stop ogling them.

Exiting the bathroom, he found the house empty. His father's keys were gone off the kitchen table, shoes vacant near the door. His car wasn't in the driveway.

Stiles shivered. They found the body, then. He would not have left so quickly if it was anything else.

He still hadn't been given back the keys to his jeep; the one rule left over by the night where everything went wrong. It was understandable, however. He didn't trust himself to drive either. But, without that he needed a way to get to school, which was covered by his psuedo-supervisors, Scott McCall and Derek Hale.

Who, of course, had to be right fricking outside.

_Dammit._

Scott stood outside the door, retracting his fist from knocking. Stiles frowned, shoving his mask over any possible real emotion he could foster. Then, he took a deep breath, and slipped his fingers over the lock in the doorknob, clicking it open. 

"There's been another murder," Stiles blurted purposefully, feeling his voice almost choke up at the word murder. The mask grew wider, tougher and durable, trickster spirit sipping away the heavy feelings in his tone. He had to act normal, like everything was fine, like he'd overheard his father's call. That was it. 

Scott's face, previously cheery and slightly sleepy, was now very awake, shocked. He walked in the house, closing the door gently behind him. " _What?_ " he breathed, eyes wide. "Already? What-"

Stiles shook his head, cutting Scott off. "I don't know why, who, or where yet. All I heard was there was another murder." All lies. They started to feel less bad on his tongue.

Scott swore, turning toward the door once again. He nodded. "Okay, that's bad. We still have to-"

"School, I know."

They both groaned, and they would've laughed at their shared hatred of school if it wasn't for the circumstances. For Scott, learning that there had been another killing. For Stiles, literally everything else.

They silently made their way to Derek's car, sitting running next to the curb. Stiles almost froze at the prospect of seeing him, shaken by the information the Nogitsune had recently brought to light.

_Do I feel that way?_ Stiles thought absently, climbing slowly into the backseat. _I couldn't possibly._ He felt the entity inside of him squirm again, and he was painfully reminded he was very good at lying, to himself included.

Scott and Derek talked up front, but Stiles couldn't bring himself to focus on their words. Something about the murder, he supposed, maybe about him. The way he was staring vacantly out the window, the ghostly appearance of his face. It wasn't his fault he looked like absolute death. Along with all the things he was doing and not doing, the Nogitsune relied on him for it's strength. Understandably, he would be getting weaker, unless they killed a lot more often than weekly. And that wasn't going to happen.

"Stiles, are you okay?" Came Scott's voice, turned to glance at his best friend. "You look.."

"I'm feeling sick," he responded listlessly. "I mean, despite what it may look like by hanging out with you, I'm not very used to people getting killed every day."

Scott grinned, apparently that easily convinced Stiles was okay, turned off the trail by a simple line of humor. A small, paper-thin lie, sprinkled with a light dusting of truth. He wasn't used to people getting killed, but by him. 

_Blood under his hands, the knife stuck in the boy's chest, organs trailing out of his stomach-_

Stiles couldn't stop it, the Nogitsune didn't, and he couldn't help it as he threw the door open, retching blindly over the side of the car. Tears stung his eyes and nothing came up, but he couldn't stop. He couldn't get the image, the feel of last night out of his head, the suffocating, blood-drenched air of the room where Terrence's body lied. A freshman, with his whole life ahead of him. Dead in his arms. He never wanted anymore Aidens, any more Allisons, but after everything he only got another.

Anger surged up within him. _Stop this!_ he mentally cried, feeling another wave of suppressed rage rush up his arms.

It stopped, like clockwork. He was left gasping, eyes open and stinging and in someone's arms. Derek's arms. He melted into his grasp.

"I'm fine," he gasped out, feeling the images of the night before start to drain out of his brain, and soon, he hoped, he would barely remember the details. "I just.. just saw crime scene photos of the last killing. I can't- can't stop _thinking_ about it." he lied shakily, finally feeling the ground back under his feet. "This.. whoever this is" he basically spat, knowing exactly who it was, "needs to be stopped. That.. old woman. This is horrible." Derek pushed him back up into a more straight position and backed off, but he still stood hunched over, breathing hoarsely. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, we're gonna be late.."

Scott, a person he'd momentarily forgotten was there, piped up. "No, Stiles, if you feel this bad you don't have to go." he turned to look at his best friend. "I can ask for extra assignments. It's no big deal."

"No, I'm fine," Stiles assured. He needed to be at school, he couldn't let even a pinch of suspicious arise. "Just squeamish. The boredom school is sure to bestow upon me should make me forget." His mask strengthened as he forced a dumb smile on his face, returning to his job as the comedic relief of their pack. 

Despite this, a worried green gaze and a soft brown one still met his eyes. They stood in front of him, taking him in. God, he was so much smaller than both of them. Even more so than normal.

"If you feel sick I can take you home," Derek stated, and Stiles immediately detected another mask. He, as well, was hiding something. "Just call."

The sentiment was there, and it made Stiles's heart ache. But the familiar agitation the Nogitsune felt around Derek rose up from the depths, and the feeling was as good as distinguished. 

"It's fine."

 

School was hectic. In a town as small as Beacon Hills, word traveled fast. Whispers of a kid dead reached his ears right as he walked through the doors. People were acting as if this was a case a high schooler could solve, mapping out every student who was absent for the day, making theories of who it could be. Kids close to the absent people were tasked with tracking them down if they didn't know where they were already, others getting permission to leave school and make sure their friends weren't dead. Tons of students rushed up to him during different sections of the day, asking if he knew anything, if the rumors were true. At least nine kids per block. All the times he said yeah, that there was another murder, but that was all he knew. They left him alone after that.

Soon, another rumor began to spread. Apparently, a sophomore named Raven got a call from the police, affirming the person who was killed. The rumors were correct. This Raven was Terrence's girlfriend, the last person he had called on his phone.

Stiles had been sitting in lunch with his friends when he saw her, exiting the cafeteria with tears streaming down her red face. Her shoulders shook and another girl walked next to her, basically holding her up through her grief.

He looked away as quick as he could, worried the walls he built would start to crumble.

"Poor girl," came Lydia's voice, holding a fork boredly and toying with the remains of her food. "I couldn't imagine how she's feeling."

Stiles stayed quiet. He was finding it easier and easier to hide in the background of their conversations, despite having to make a grand entrance every lunch after finishing his punishment in the science room. 

"We gotta find this guy," Scott spoke, tone hard. "It's obvious he's staying, continuing his business. Now someone's dead- a kid. This can't happen again."

Kira nodded, her dark eyes flickering back up to Lydia. "Did you predict it?" She asked solemnly.

Lydia sighed, dropping her fork and running a hand carefully through her made up hair, not disturbing the styling. A quick, easy to read sign that no, she had not predicted the death when she should have. "I did this morning," she explained, voice dropping to a whisper so no one else could hear. "But it was minor. Nothing like a murder should have felt. I didn't even see anything- I just gasped." She paused. "like when that kid's grandmother had a heart attack. But a murder isn't a heart attack."

Stiles took in a breath. Could the Nogitsune mess with a banshee's power? He doubted it, at least not directly. Maybe it could tone down the death a bit, via a shield of some sort?

_This isn't one of your games,_ the Nogitsune broke in. _I masked the death until the banshee wouldn't recieve it, not as much as she should have._

Stiles nodded. Interesting. If he wasn't still mentally recovering from the other night, he would've asked more.

"Ugh," Kira groaned, bringing Stiles from his thoughts. She was slouched over her phone, scowling at the screen. "My mom's picking me up. She won't tell me why."

Scott nodded. "It's probably the same reason your dad had a sub today."

Stiles stiffened. Kira's mom had known the Nogitsune long before any of them did. The demon inside realized this threat as well, an urgent, somewhat vengeful feeling rising up from the ashes. She could have realized the Nogitsune was, in fact, not trapped, and was going to tell her daughter. _This could be the end_ , he thought rapidly, feeling his blood run cold. _They're going to find out and I'll have to kill them, all of them!_

_Do not overreact._ The Nogitsune advised. Stiles wanted to retort that that was a bit hypocritical, but he decided against it. _We will see what comes of this. Then, we will act accordingly._

 

 

"Terrence Matthews, age fourteen. His mother and father had gone out for an anniversary dinner that night, leaving their son home alone, making sure to lock the doors on their way out. There are signs of forced entry from a secret latch underneath the house, one that Mr. and Mrs. Matthews insist they never even knew about. The offendor entered from below, ripping a hole from the lower siding of the building. 

"The victim was found mutilated beside his bed, disemboweled and stabbed a total of three times. One in each lung respectively, and one in the lower right hip. The latter was used for, as I mentioned, disembowelment. His face shows signs of minor fractures, one in his cheekbone and another along the ridge of his top tooth, which, after being hit in the face with his own baseball bat, punctured his lip."

Noah nodded, taking another lengthy sip of his coffee. He absentmindedly watched the medics clean up the body- cover it in a thick black sheet, life it onto a gurney even though it was most obviously past the point of recieving medical help. Parrish continued blabbering in front of him, specifying on the injuries, but he didn't want to listen to that. Terrence Matthews was fourteen, only two years younger than Stiles. The possibility of his son dying was something often fresh on his mind, ever since he- he-

Noah swallowed. No. He wasn't going to think about that.

"Any sign of him?" He queried, taking his gaze back to the young deputy before him. "Tracks, DNA, murder weapon?"

Parrish shook his head, frowning. "They were only able to recover the bat, and the kid owned that. The knives were nowhere to be found."

"Knives?"

"Yes, evidence suggests there were multiple knives," he explained, motioning his hands in a knife-esque fashion. "They had different edges, punctured the body differently. We've connected them to coming from a restraunant all the way across town, and the employees are already being questioned, but we haven't found the knives themselves."

"DNA?" Noah repeated. "Anything at all this time?"

Parrish shook his head again, that same disappointed frown coming over his face. "I'm afraid not, sir." He affirmed, voice quiet. "No finger prints, not even on the baseball bat. Our team hasn't found anything as of yet, and I don't think they will. We didn't find anything at the other scene, not even any blood on the knife our guy was stabbed with."

This must be something supernatural, then. He didn't very well understand all of that - other than his son's best friend being a _werewolf_ \- so he'd have to question the kids. If he assumed right, they were probably already investigating it. Putting themselves in danger, that is.

Noah watched as they hoisted the body away, flashes of Stiles being carried into the hospital, all bloody and pale. His lax body lying still on a hospital bed, blood being rushed into his veins in order to save his life. Stiles's cold, cold hand in his, face expressionless and deathly.

He cleared his throat. "I'm going to go get some air," he clarified, and Parrish nodded, eyes wide and sympathetic as he surveyed the sheriff's stance.

The house was baby-blue in the morning light, casting shadows on the yard beside it. He walked down the rickety porch steps, wondering if maybe the killer had taken this same path, trying the door before finding another way inside. Inside to the kid.

His coffee sat abandoned on the railings as he let his feet carry him to the back, green grass littered with wilting dandelions pushing away wherever he stepped. The forest lied in front of him, oak trees swaying in the humid breeze. Birdsong swelled from it, and Noah found it hard to accept that a child murderer had hid in there twice, and might still have been staying there.

He stiffened at the crack of a twig.

Whipping to the side to face his attacker, Noah's hand fell to the gun strapped to his waist, hovering over it in case he'd need it. And thinking of the man's actions, he was sure he probably would.

Instead of the tall, blood-coated person he'd expected, Derek Hale stood alone against a tree, a smug expression settled on his face. His arms were crossed, and he watched the sheriff with intense eyes.

"Derek Hale," Noah greeted grimly, tipping his head in the young man's direction. He brought his hand away from the gun, instead motioning to the surrounding area. "You can't be here."

"I know," he answered simply, walking forward. "I'd like to ask, what happened here?"

He really shouldn't have been sharing this information with a shady creature who'd just appeared out of thin air. Even if Stiles and Scott trusted him with their lives. But, he knew that those kids were looking into this as much or even more than the police were, and would probably eliminate the threat before he could, so he opened his mouth.

"Kid," Noah started. "got, uh, stabbed. Three times. It was real messy; disemboweled, beaten. Parents were out."

Derek nodded, a familiar scowl growing on his face, but his eyes turned serious. "Did you find anything in the woods?"

"Now? We haven't sent a team out yet," he explained. "The first murder gave us nothing. Guy's a ghost."

"No cameras?"

An odd question. Why would there be cameras? "Um, no," he replied awkwardly. "We found nothing."

Derek nodded, in thought. He turned his head, staring past the sheriff with narrowed eyes. He waited. Time ticked on.

"I have to get back," he broke the silence, gesturing toward the house. "I've probably gone over my allotted time."

Derek didn't move. Still staring, still thinking, consciousness seemingly way back in the deepest annals of his brain. Then, his phone rang, and he glanced quickly at Noah before sulking off. 

God. Why did he let his son hang out with such odd people?

 

Stiles hated phys ed. His previous tolerance for it was gone the moment he stepped on the field, forced to run and move his sore _everything_. He was even tackled a few times, more in fun than bad taste, but it still hurt. He, somehow, managed to laugh it off. 

Afterwards, changing in the locker room was odd. He couldn't very well let people see the light pink markings trailing along his hip, or any of the scars he shamefully wore, so he excused himself to the bathroom. Where he vomited.

He was so tired. He wished to be back in bed, forgetting the things that happened, not at school doing suicide sprints with a demon making his limbs move at a steady speed.

_You are weak,_ it whispered as he cupped his hands under the faucet, letting water spill into them slowly, before he splashed it in his face. _Your body is not coping well with last night's large intake of energy, you can barely hold me. You must rest._

"Yeah, I fucking get that," Stiles murmured wearily, glancing at himself in the mirror. He looked like a corpse. If what the Nogitsune was saying was true, his body-turned-vessel was not strong enough to properly contain said creature for long, not without him getting physically healthier.

Which would be hard. Step one of getting better, adequate rest. Which was not something Stiles was getting, and was making it worse by working his sleep-deprived body at this stupid game.

_As much as I hate to say it, I suggest we call your wolf._

"Scott?" Stiles wondered, eyebrows furrowing. Scott was right outside; probably changing, chatting with Danny. What would it do to call him?

_No,_ your _wolf._

Once again, Stiles felt his muscles tense, and a familiar nausea swept over him. Derek was not his. Probably never would be. Besides, if people knew he felt that way about any guy, he was sure he would be teased relentlessly, for obvious reasons.

Stiles nodded. "Yeah. I can't physically make it through the next two hours without passing out, can I?"

_I am afraid not, Stiles. You are weakening by the minute._

A groan echoed from Stiles's lips as he grasped at his jeans pocket, taking a good few seconds to grasp his phone and pull it out. He was glad the school had permitted Derek to pick him up, at least with the guise that he was going to take him to his dad's. Which usually wasn't the case. Most of the time, it was to investigate something supernatural or other with Scott and the rest of the pack. 

The sound of the phone ringing echoed all throughout the bathroom. Stiles cringed, turning down the volume a tad, hoping no one had heard him, especially not Scott. He didn't want to feel his dangerously concerned eyes wracking his frail frame, shredding guilt into his very bones. 

Finally, after a few slow, rythmic beats, a tinny voice greeted him.

"Stiles? What is it?"

Stiles swallowed. What to say?

"I feel like I'm dying." he answered truthfully, a wave of heat washing over him, so hot it felt cold for a second. Despite this, he shivered. The Nogitsune was moving frantically inside, the sensations wild and too noticeable, not normal. His insides sparked into a flame, like someone was burning him internally. "This morning, you said-"

"Where are you?" His voice was firm and held an urgent tone. Stiles swallowed once more, nervously.

"The bathroom. At school."

"What bathroom?"

"Locker room."

There was muffled cursing on the other end and the sound of an engine revving, the phone being placed somewhere that muddled noise. Apparently, if need be, Derek was prepared to burst into a locker room to get him. He waited, hand loose around his own phone, blinking lazily at the now blurry mirror in front of him. The silence lasted what seemed like hours. Stiles felt oddly thirsty, like all the moisture in his mouth was suddenly sucked away. His thoughts began to move like they were submerged in honey, sluggish and slow. He was dimly aware of the Nogitsune's meddlesome voice drifting through it, but he couldn't make out what it was trying to tell him.

Derek finally cleared his throat, and, with as much normalcy as possible shoved into his tone, he said, "I'll be there in a few minutes." 

And that was it.

Soon, over the speakerphone, his name was called. He stumbled out of the bathroom, ignoring the stares of the other guys - including Scott - at his ghostly pallor and zombie-like movements, or the fact that he was called to the office at all. He didn't even go to his locker, just straight to there, eyes half lidded as the lady at the desk mumbled on about him getting picked up. He barely had the capacity to nod along.

His body was shutting down, he knew. Whatever power the Nogitsune derived from that much pain was not something he could hold very well, not like how he was now. It was eating at him, killing him. He needed to sleep, and his feet were moving on their own, not by the Nogitsune's doing but by pure instinct, driving him toward the possibility of a warm bed-

He pushed out the doors and was immediately greeted by the warm bed. No, not bed. Warm arms.

Limp and shaking, Derek caught him as he almost fell over, leaning the lax teenager against his chest. Stiles murmured incomprehensibly, skin radiating heat. He wondered what Derek thought. Maybe that he actually was dying.

Whatever was in that pretty head of his, Stiles didn't find out, because soon he was gently laid down in the passenger seat of a car, chin pointed up as he slumped in place. The car started back up, and fingers were wrapped in his, alleviating the burning pain deriving from his brain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> stiles, groaning loudly: i haaaaaate schoooooooooool  
> noah: you dont have to go if you dont feel like it c;  
> stiles, frantically: oh no school is much too important haha :))))))))


	8. Stars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oof this one sucks as well. at least i got 'hey, mr stargazer' in there so someone could figure out that this fic is based off from "straight razor" by matt maeson, but not really. thats more my au stiles in general, the actual song is "me and my friends are lonely", also by matt maeson. also "twenty twelve" by matt maeson. those two songs really just embody this fic, other than some pronoun issues, but there are very few in the songs. (i just love matt maeson okay)
> 
> this is now a songfic. songs: twenty twelve, me and my friends are lonely, both by the best boy matt maeson. deal w/ it

When he woke up, it was night. His room was dark, only lit up by the yellow-twinged light in the hallway, streaming through his open doorway. He was glad it missed his eyes; he had a migraine to beat hell, and it didn't seem to be going away any time soon. His mouth felt full of cotton as he breathed rhythmically, eyes half closed as he struggled to stay lucid. The burning pain was fading, almost too slow to even tell. He still felt as struck down as someone with the a virus bad enough to kill.

He turned his head to the side, but the action was minute. He kept as quiet as possible as his lazy honey-colored irises swam to the side, spotting a figure sitting before the window, troublesome eyes trained on the night sky above.

"Hey, mr stargazer," Stiles teased, voice slurring with no one to stop it.

Derek turned his head, and Stiles felt a smile playing on his pale face. Too sentimental, he knew.

"Go back to sleep," The eldest murmured, attempting to be soothing but coming on harsh instead. Stiles cringed back, letting his head fall back against the pillow. He didn't try to sleep, though. Just lied there. Listening. Listening for the Nogitsune.

He heard nothing.

"Hello?" He whispered, not realizing for a moment that the person in the room was indeed a superhuman with super senses and could probably hear him asking for the creature. He blamed it on his state of mind.

Like expected, Derek turned his head back toward him, confusion littering his gaze. "What?"

Struggling with the prospect of the Nogitsune being _gone_ , Stiles shook his head, feigning full deliriousness to save his skin. "Where am I?" he murmured, knowing exactly where he was. 

"Your room," Derek confirmed, before he cleared his throat. "Now sleep."

Stiles frowned. "No," he disagreed. "What happened?"

"You could tell me."

"I don't know," he lied through his teeth, and he hated lying to Derek. He knew what was happening, or at least the major details; his weak-ass body wasn't a strong enough vessel to contain an ever-powerful dark trickster kitsune. You know, normal things. "I think I'm just.. sick."

"You looked like you were dying," Derek murmured, not taking his eyes off the stars above, the pin pricks of light lighting up his summer green irises. "You're always true to your word."

Stiles remembered the call, but cringed at the alpha's choice of words; he, especially now, was _never_ true to his word. Lying about important things was just a regular activity now. He did it on instinct.

"You think too much of me," Stiles responded listlessly, letting his eyes trail from Derek's body to the floor. He snuggled tighter in the blankets, relishing in the minimal warmth they provided to his frail body. He curled his fingers around his wrist, and was shocked to feel them curl around it without any trouble, overlapping a bit. He removed his hand, and tried to hide his disgust at just how thin the wrist was. Just skin and bone.

He felt nauseous again, and he knew eating was the only way out of that. But just the thought of putting something more inside himself, having to do something so routinely human made him feel even sicker.

"Stiles," came Derek's voice, but Stiles didn't look up, didn't take the bait. He could feel the intense glare of the werewolf guarding him digging into his sharp shoulders. "Do you realize how light you are?"

Stiles rubbed his fingers around his wrist, trying to ignore the pink scar edging his touch and the harsh voice above him. "I mean, you are a supernatural creature with supernatural strength," he tried to joke, but it came out numb. He swallowed, massaging the bump of a bone.

Derek ignored his futile attempt at humor. "When did you eat last?"

Stiles felt chills run down his spine, colliding roughly with the humid wave of shame that splashed over his chest, heat rising to his cheeks. 

"I don't know," he answered, and this time it was the truth.

At Derek's silence, Stiles felt even more compelled to vomit. But he wasn't sure anything would come up.

"Stiles," Derek began. "I- We need you. The pack needs you. Like Scott said; you're the glue."

"This is just awkward," Stiles hissed, pushing himself off the mattress and into a sitting position, back propped up against the wall. Derek's gaze was harsher, drilling into his chest, but he still refused to look, instead hyper-focusing on the fact that he was still in the clothes he wore to school. "I've gotten these talks before. Many times. Just stop it."

"Stiles-"

" _Stop_ it."

Silence. Huh. Stiles never managed to shut up Derek before. He didn't even need the persuasive help of the Nogitsune.

"I appreciate everything you did today, Derek, I do, but I'm just sick of these stupid lectures. They don't help." He glanced up, and actually met Derek's eyes, trying his best not the shrink under the intensity. "In fact, they make it worse."

A sort of disdainful regret rushed over Derek's face, and Stiles inwardly cringed. Now, he was just spouting whatever nonsense with any sort of truth to it that would further the situation, internally and subconsciously aching to be back in Derek's arms. It was a gross feeling, one that the Nogitsune wasn't there to rid him of. 

"I- I'm sorry," Derek apologized, tone profuse.

An apology? From Derek Hale? Stiles almost laughed.

"It's fine," he managed to sputter out, shaken by the sincerity of the alpha's voice. He assumed the guy was capable of having emotions other than amusement, annoyance, and anger (the three As), but he never thought something other than those would be directed at him. Relief for a threat being neutralized, grief for the dead. He'd seen betrayal with the witch woman who pretended to be their teacher. Love with her, too.

Love.

_No, never._

"Are you okay, then?" Derek asked, tone impossibly full of it; love. Affection. Just like the time that felt like years ago, after the Incident. Where he had first heard it, but not acknowledged that it was directed toward him, Stiles, and not just a wounded, dying victim.

"I feel like I'm on fire," he deadpanned, manually pushing those thoughts out of his brain. He shuffled on the bed, glad for the situation change. "My head feels like it's going to burst, and I'm stressed. So yeah, just perfectly okay." he smirked at his own cynicality.

Derek nodded, and Stiles caught a smile covering his usual scowl. A sincere smile. Like affection, sincere was just not a word that he ever thought to put with their brooding alpha. "Your dad will get you anything you need, he's downstairs," he explained, standing up from the chair he'd been sitting on. He stretched a bit, shirt riding up-

_Oh jesus christ. Fuck the hell off._ He screamed into his unnaturally empty brain, averting his gaze, unable to stop the blush rising to his cheeks.

Thankfully, Derek didn't seem to notice. He slipped on his jacket, keys jangling happily in his pocket. "I have to go."

"Where are you going?" Stiles inquired, genuinely interested, for two different reasons. One, he was naturally nosy and curious, and two, if it had anything to do with the you-know-whats, he needed to know.

"With Scott and everyone else, to patrol the town. Noah pardoned us so we wouldn't be seen as suspects." He smiled down at Stiles's pitiful form, seeing past the boy's sunken in eyes and snowy pallor. "I'd invite you to come, but I don't think that would be healthy."

Stiles felt a smile play on his lips, not a result of a stupid joke, his own words or so forth, but pure joy. A small, euphoric feeling he thought he abandoned the night he said yes to the creature inside. 

"Yeah, I guess not," he responded, stubbornly lost in Derek's eyes, his features and stature. He hated it, but loved it at the same time. Derek stared back, but Stiles couldn't read him. Damn his normal, not anywhere near super senses. Derek was probably reading him like a children's book, mask unequipped and guard down. Nogitsune.. gone?

"Stay safe," Stiles blurted as Derek turned to leave, their gazes unlocking and re-locking. He slammed his mouth shut, feeling stupid.

Derek smiled. "Oh, don't worry," he flexed his hands by his side. "I will."

 

_Stiles._

He was being called, a voice pulling his consciousness even further away, and he knew that his earlier hope had been wrong put. The voice calling him wasn't anyone else's, no, of course it had to be his own, but sharper, more smooth. Bringing him to the state of mind where the Nogitsune operated. The land by the lake, where Allison had been.

The night was a crisp one, grey-twinged trees and grass swaying in the steady breeze. His hair was tossed around in the wind, thrown in his eyes, but he wasn't fazed. He wasn't fazed by any of this; he had become accustomed. The starless, black as death sky no longer unnerved him. Neither did the water, reflecting a moon-like light that was absent above.

The Nogitsune, him, stood next to the lake, as always. This time, the rip in his shirt was mended, blood only a mere stain. Both eyes were there. He looked much healthier than Stiles did at the moment, strong, lively, actual important colors in it's face. But, the insanity reflected in it's irises were something he never, ever wanted to see.

"What happened?" Stiles asked, getting to the point. He walked forward, that weightless feeling that seemed connected to this plane of existence barely bothering him. "Where were you?"

The Nogitsune smiled, humming amusedly at Stiles's words. "Missed me, hmm?" It purred, leaning forward a bit, hands behind it's back. "Could you function?"

That same, hot shame curled down Stiles's sides. He was not going to admit he missed being able to control the stupid pauses, the stuttering and the blushes. "Yes, I could _function_ ," he spat. "I was just a little confused. Because I was previously dying and then the demon in my head was gone. You know. Confusing?"

It sighed, straightening it's back. "You were hopeful, as well," it sounded disappointed, eyes trailing to the side of Stiles, back toward the forest where he had arrived from. "You do not trust me."

" _Trust you?_ " he gaped, hysteria eating into his voice. "You're a demon!"

"A kitsune," it corrected calmly.

"What the fuck ever," Stiles retaliated sharply. "This _thing_ that's going on here? This isn't something that trust is involved in. I'm only doing this to keep my friends _safe_. Not to mingle with you, not to _trust_ you."

"Be quiet," The Nogitsune demanded, though it's face was serene, stance relaxed. "This conversation is not important, Stiles. There is something more important going on."

Stiles sighed, bringing his hands to his face, groaning for a moment into his palms before he forced himself to try and be as calm as the entity before him. "What? What's so important?"

The Nogitsune shuffled on it's feet, bringing it's hands from behind it and crossing them across it's chest. "I cannot heal your wounds completely anymore, or this vessel will fail."

What? 

Stiles froze, statement like a slap to the face. The only reason he was alive right then was because of the Nogitsune's crazy magic powers. He breathed in deep, letting himself take a second to blink stupidly at the healthier but otherwise mirror image of himself across the clearing. "What do you mean? Why?"

"My power intermingles with your blood," it explained slowly, like talking to a child. Stiles didn't complain. "It heals things. Things I decide. But, now my power is embedded in the scar tissue. It keeps the wounds together." It took a step forward, and Stiles felt his heart jump. The only thing that scared him now was the creature inside his head; he had been at the wrong end of it's hit before. Another step, and then another. He was suddenly thrust back into the memory of Allison, his feet locked to the ground like he was glued there. The feeling was back again. He couldn't move anything but his head.

It approached slowly, politely. Stiles didn't believe it for one second. It came up to him, too close for any sort of comfort, and grabbed Stiles's shirt, pulling it up. Unable to stop it, Stiles just stood still, closing his eyes as if he could escape his own head and get away from his clone, who was- who was-

A thumb dragged across the jagged scar on his hip, the stretched tight light pink expanse. He felt something in his stomach turn, and then pain started to grow there. Like something was ripping through his skin again, a blade pushing deep, but it was just the Nogitsune's fingers. It couldn't be.

Then, when the old woman had twisted her knife, he felt whatever spell had hold of him drop. When it did, he dropped as well, the pain exploding tenfold. Flames licked at the skin, blood welling up over a newly reopened wound. It was a scar earlier; how was it bleeding now?

When he looked up, the Nogitsune hadn't moved, staring with malevolent eyes down at it's prey. "See?" It whispered, crouching down to Stiles's level, basking in his pain. "I extracted the energy holding you together. The wound is alive." it frowned, cocking it's head at Stiles, a cold finger trailing down his now tear-stained cheeks. It was a disgusting feeling, and he jerked away, eyes throwing daggers. "This helps you, heals you, in a way. But also hurts." 

"That makes _no_ sense," Stiles managed to spit out, trying to edge away from the Nogitsune as subtly as possible. The creature was prone to aggressive outbursts. 

"Sure it does. You can't hold all of this.. _power_." It smirked at it's own self-proclamation, pleased by the notion that it was even more powerful than at first. It ran it's hand down Stiles's front, back under his shirt, touching the sticky blood flowing from the open wound they never let heal. Then, the pain ripped away. Gone, numb.

Stiles looked back down, confused at the blood still soaked into his shirt and waistband, but the lack of pain. Then, the kitsune pulled Stiles's shirt back up, exposing his too-flat abdomen and-

No injury. Just the scar.

"You can.. take it away?"

The Nogitsune nodded, dropping the hem of the t-shirt and standing back up. "Yes."

A hand was extended in his direction. A bloody hand, his own, but not. He stared back up at the void version of himself, and took the gesture.

Stiles woke up, sweating. 

He threw the covers off his body and breathed in a sigh of relief at the sight of a clean shirt, no blood to be found. His previous hummingbird heart beat slowed to almost normal, and he flopped back down on the bed, registering what just happened. Like he'd been hit by a train.

He groaned. "Fuck me."

_Oh, I am afraid I don't feel that way about you,_ the Nogitsune responded dumbly.

 

A week, the Nogitsune had said. A week until they had to strike again.

The period of inactivity was over.

Stiles was walking home from another uneventful, boring, and frankly depressing day at school. The heat fell down on his back like a heavy blanket, slowing him down and making him sweat. Any other time, he'd be ecstatic to escape the usual cold he carried around, but he never liked humidity. He ached to be in front of an air conditioner, basking in it's artificial icy breeze. The Nogitsune agreed- it also functioned better when it was cold. Preferably freezing. At least his experience in the basement of the Eichen House made sense now, or why it was always so cold in the mind-realm where the entity operated.

"There's an after-graduation party at Lydia's tonight," Stiles murmured, adjusting the backpack strap on his shoulder. "I was thinking, could you-"

_We will not delay anything for the sake of some small, mundane celebration._

Stiles nodded. "Wow, you're really not getting this teenager thing." He joked, causing the Nogitsune to stir, consciousness fluttering against his skin. "Okay, fine. But everyone goes to this. Even losers like me." he explained, thinking of the last time he'd been at a senior graduation party. God, he'd gotten so drunk. Too drunk for a freshman. "If I'm not there, and another you-know-what goes down, wouldn't that raise a bit of a red flag?"

A pause. He mentally felt the Nogitsune consider this proposal. Then, an overjoyed feeling rushed across him harsher and faster than the heat, panging into his brain and causing him to flinch considerably. 

_I know what we could do,_ it blurted, mad excitement coating it's voice. _At this party, we could strike. We could cause wide panic; like ants running from a magnifying glass._

"Chaos," Stiles sighed, bringing up a hand up to rub at his face. Of course. "You know how hard that would be for me? To kill someone with like, hundreds of possible witnesses?"

That same sensation swirled up through his veins, causing him to full on wince this time. These emotions were getting out of hand.

_I will be in control,_ it affirmed. _We will not be caught. I assure you._

"If I say no, will it matter?"

_No, it will not matter, unfortunately. If you decide against me, I will subdue your will and continue with my exploits. But, it would be a lot easier if you agreed._

Stiles ran his hand through his hair, grimacing at how grossly sweaty it was. He frowned. "I don't agree, like, at all. But I guess- I guess we'll do this."

Ah, great. Back in the cold, icy basement of the Eichen House with the snap of a finger. The place where the Nogitsune sent him whenever it didn't want him to see what it was doing. 

_Should get comfortable,_ Stiles thought. _I'll probably be here for awhile._

 

Finally, after what felt like hours, and probably was hours, Stiles awoke. He was sitting on an overly comfortable bed, his backpack next to him, unusually full. In his hands was a paper with a list of numbers on it, labeled "drinks" in messy blue scrawl, and his own phone, opened up to his call log. He called a majority of the numbers, it seemed, some more than once. The room smelled terribly of some kind of floral perfume, enough to make anyone nauseous, and it was comfortably cool. As well as that, someone was talking.

Stiles turned his head, and tried not to be shocked when he saw Lydia at the end of the room, quickly speaking into her phone with a smile on her lips. Her eyes were off to the side, staring out the window at the sight of a car pulling in, framed sharply against the setting sun. Stiles watched, confused, as a man stepped out, carrying a large brown paper bag like it was a human child. Lydia motioned to the man, and then to Stiles, and then in the direction of the door, trying not to stray from whatever important conversation she was having.

Stiles didn't get what he was supposed to be doing until the doorbell rang and Lydia's gesturing got more aggressive, mouthing his name until he got up and made his way toward the bedroom door.

"Here, give me a second," Lydia said and Stiles paused, feeling the expected tapping on his shoulder. He turned around, a sheepish smile growing on his face as he saw the twenty dollar bill in her hands. "Stupid." She stated plainly, eyes fond of her friend but stance teasing.

"Yeah, sorry," he mumbled, tucking the list of numbers and his phone into his pocket. He grabbed the money, shrugging at her as she rolled her eyes. The doorbell rang impatiently in the background, and Lydia went back to talking.

Stiles made his way out of the room, wandering down the halls and gawking at the decorations. Typical party fodder, fairy lights, tables draped with sheets that would most likely be stained thoroughly throughout the night. Bowls, empty now, soon to be filled with some tropical-flavored punch that was more often than not spiked. He smiled at the sight of more abundant sitting areas; last time he'd complained so much that every open seat was either next to a couple making out or a very drunk, very much puking person that Lydia said her ears would fall off.

But, back to the door. Stiles walked up, grasping the twenty tightly as he pulled it open. Hot, thick air met his face, and he cringed, inwardly inching a bit back into the relieving temperature of Lydia's place.

"I got as much as I could without it being obvious it was for something like this," the man explained, motioning at the paper bag. He caught the sight of a dark, chocolate-twinged glass bottle sticking out of the top. He recognized wine, and realized why exactly he was there. 

"Thanks," Stiles mumbled unhelpfully, slinging his arm under the heavy package. He smiled at the guy as best as he could before the man took the money, and Stiles shut the door.

He stumbled back to Lydia, various different types of alcohol sloshing in his arms. She smiled when he kicked open her door - lightly, mind you - and motioned to set them on the bed. Her phone was sitting on the dresser, and she seemed done talking.

"Your dad said he'd send some officers to guard the party, but I think having a bunch of teenage boys with claws is enough protection." Lydia explained, exhaling deeply. "Of course, I wouldn't want the police here, even though the sheriff will probably send some anyways. We _are_ minors drinking _alcohol_ , after all."

Stiles nodded, offering her a small laugh. The tension of the murders was only rising each day someone didn't turn up dead. Every night he knew his friends would go scope out the town for the killer, even though they already knew him. Stiles couldn't help it; the thought was ironically funny. The murderer was right under their noses.

"Stiles, do you think something is going to happen?"

He was confused at her words for a second, turning his gaze back toward her strawberry blonde hair. Yes, he thought something was going to happen. In actuality, he _knew_ something was going to happen. But he couldn't tell anyone that, especially not someone like Lydia, who was known to predict these sort of things.

"I really can't say, Lyds. I mean, I hope not," he offered, shrugging his shoulders and tucking his hands in his pants pockets. "Nothing's happened for awhile. Do you think he's gone?"

Lydia shook her head, and something in her eyes told him she knew for sure. "No, he's here. He hasn't left. There's.. something weird in the air. I feel.." She gestured somewhat wildly, trying to come up with a word that fit her feelings. After a few seconds, she groaned in frustration, arms falling to her sides. "I don't know. I can just.. sense something, I guess. Banshee and all." 

"Maybe you're just paranoid. I'm sure nothing will happen to you." 

"Its not me I'm worried about," she responded, determined glare in her eyes. "Its everyone else. Scott, Isaac, all of them. If anything happens-"

"Lydia," Stiles said, placing his hand on her shoulder. "They're all going to be fine. I'm sure of it."

 

Barely two hours after people started arriving, and half the party goers were already blackout drunk. He watched as student he recognized as a tryhard senior similar in personality to Jackson chugged the remains of a bottle of vodka, cheered on by his peers and a few starstruck ladies in his grade. Another bunch of students were dancing around Lydia's makeshift bonfire and perfectly reciting the words of We Didn't Start the Fire, throwing their empty red cups right into the flames without care. A few people who refused to drink, like Stiles, watched this spectacle with interest. Most people laughed as a teenager with long hair stumbled with the grace of a newborn penguin and tripped over another person, slamming his face into a couple who - you guessed it - were making out passionately on a couch.

It was amusing, Stiles could admit. But it was hard to have fun when the clock was ticking, and the sun was going down. He knew something would happen soon, and even though he couldn't see any pesky werewolves scoping out the area, he knew they were there. Waiting, watching, for the murderer to make himself known. But, they didn't even know if the murderer would show up, and they definitely didn't know he was already there.

Again, a smile he couldn't help grew on his lips. Ironic. He felt bad for laughing, but suddenly he was.

He distantly saw Raven, the girl whom he'd taken her love from, glowering as a boy tried to gain her affections. A junior, praying on the attractive freshman. It was a normal thing to catch sight of. But, as he tried to move his arms around her waist, he was shoved away.

_That one,_ came the Nogitsune's voice for the first time that night, and Stiles flinched so hard his water splashed over the edge of the cup. He swore. _Protect the girl. They will react, and we will get our chance._

"Will do," Stiles whispered half-heartedly. He knew what he had to do. He would get it done as quick as possible, so he could go back to enjoying his regular life for a week. At least the guy was a dick, coming onto a girl who was obviously not into it. Maybe, just maybe, it would make it easier.

He strutted up to the asshole, stepping in front of Raven slightly protectively. "Hey, man. Leave her alone." He said with a bunch of false confidence, already knowing his fate.

"Huh? And what're you gonna do about it, Stilinski?" He spat, voice slurring dangerously. It was obvious he was just as drunk as everyone else, maybe even more so. The ready to pass out or violently vomit at any second type of drunk. "Gonna go jump off a building again?"

Oh wow. Oh jesus. Low blow. But of course he'd bring it up, even getting the details of the situation wrong. It was a thing only special types of assholes did.

Without hesitation, Stiles threw his cup right into the guy's face. His stupid fuckboy haircut was wet down by the water, droplets dripping down his equally fuckboy-ish shirt. Stiles smiled smugly, and heard Raven gasp from behind him, before his arms were grabbed and he was being dragged roughly away.

Stiles fought a little, just to make it seem convincing. The original douchebag was at his right, and one of his goons was at his left. Both laughing at Stiles's expense. But alas, he'd been on this end of this stick for far too long for the names to really phase him anymore, even the ones about his more recent screw up.

They stumbled passed the fire pit, but everyone was too out of it to notice him being carried away, now limp body being pulled around the side of the house. In sight was a shed; secluded, empty, perfect for what was going down. Scarily Stiles felt himself smile, but it was him doing it. Not anyone else.

"Brad, the door," The second guy called, and Stiles only had a split second to bask in the hilarity of the name before he was flung inside the dusty place. His back collided with a shelf, various items evidently not touched in a long, long time coming tumbling down onto his spine. They clattered on the ground loudly, ringing in Stiles's ears. He didn't care; shook it off, actually. One particularly heavy screwdriver had hit him in the shoulder, but the ache was dull, minuscule compared to others he had had before. The lackey, Brad, shut the door behind them as they sauntered in, cracking their knuckles and glaring at him with crazed, dilated pupils. Both of them, then, would not remember this in the morning. Thankfully, they wouldn't have a morning. A mourning, probably. But no morning.

"Lay off me when I'm getting girls next time, pussy," Jock #1 hissed in his face, rolling up his sleeve. Then, a hard, well-placed fist sent him sprawling to the side, grasping at things on the ground, searching for a possible weapon. Finally, his hands came across a small wrench wedged underneath one of the shelves. He reached for it, grasping it around the handle as another punch came flying at his face, knocking the wrench from his hands.

Dammit. He'd have to try harder. 

His face was aching as a kick from someone with steel-toed boots crashed into his chest, knocking the air out of him like a squeezed balloon. He breathed heavily for a second, before he started moving again, the Nogitsune now in control. He jumped to his feet quicker than ever and slammed Brad into the wall, twirling around. His eyes fell on a weapon; a small, silver boxcutter. It was slightly rusted around the edges, but the blade was sharp. Distantly, he thought he could make out someone shriek. Consequently, he realized what was coming.

That familiar smile grew on Stiles's face as he heard Jock #2 regain his footing, running at him and making noises akin to an angered bull. The Nogitsune had no time for that; he turned, hand flying gracefully out, thin razor ripping straight through the skin on his neck.

Blood gushed out, and the boy fell to the ground almost immediately, gurgling and grasping tightly at his destroyed throat. The first one stood shocked by the doorway, ready to bolt, but the Nogitsune was fast, leaping like a predator to it's prey as it tackled him down. It was just another quick slash as the second life was set to end, blood spattering in a quick arch onto their pale face.

He stepped back to view his work. Silent only for a few bubbling gasps, the men drowned on their own blood. A pleasurable joy rose through him, his demon feeding on the deaths. But, of course, something had to ruin the fun. Footsteps, light and wary, crept around the edge of the shed, coming quickly toward the entrance. Gripping the boxcutter tightly, the Nogitsune walked forward, ready to strike. The audible sound of a gun's safety being clicked off echoed in the night.

The door was flung open.

"Put your hands up!" The man demanded tensely. And the man; oh, oh no. 

Deputy Parrish?

His eyes softened at the sight of Stiles, but they were still held off. He didn't lower the gun, aimed straight at his head. "Stiles?" He asked, recognizing the sheriff's son. "What are you-"

Stiles felt himself tense even without control of his body, the Nogitsune pouncing forward and taking the boxcutter-

_No, no, please no, our agreement, stop-!_

Parrish stared surprised at the boy he'd known, the insane, joyous expression on his face, the blade cutting through flesh. A thin line of red ran out of the deputy's mouth, before more came. Stiles watched as his knees buckled, falling the ground outside of the shed, face framed by green grass.

The gravity of the situation made the Nogitsune shake with excitement, made Stiles want to faint. Parrish lied there, dead, staring blindly at the stars above.

There were no details. No paragraphs to be written. This was it; three dead bodies. One of someone he would call a friend. In his hand, the weapon that killed them.

There was a yell from nearby. A different woman, spotting the body lying grotesquely outside of the door.

 _Our plan was disrupted,_ the creature said. _But we will make do._

The Nogitsune decided what to do for him.

It backed off to a corner, away from Parrish but near the boys. Near where he had been thrown in the first place. Then, he ran the crisp, sharp blade of the boxcutter across his own neck.

_I will keep us alive, and make it believable,_ the Nogitsune promised. _But it will hurt._

Didn't it always hurt?

Something hot and wet ran down his neck, the wound stinging and screaming. The torn flesh of his throat was already knitting itself back together, but it was slow. That same warm, iron-tasting liquid welled up in his mouth, dribbling down his chin. The scar on his forehead from the bathroom fall came undone, blood beginning to drip down his face in thin rivulets, for effect, Stiles presumed.

Unceremoniously, he fell to the ground, coughing. Blood splattering on the pavement in front of him.

Another scream, distant.

Footsteps, as well. Heavy, urgent. He wasn't there to see who it was, who they were. His breathing was replaced by erratic spouts of blood, staining the ground beneath him. He was so close, so close to death. The closest he'd been since the agreement. He ached for it, ached for it to stop, for the murders to cease and the pain to end, but the demon inside would never let that happen. His soul was so close to the end he could almost touch it, the bright light everyone talked about. It shined with a never ending happiness, warm and inviting him to a better place. 

It was drifting away.

He watched it go with unseeing eyes. Apathy gnawed at his core, only disturbed by the strong flares of the wound across his skin. He did not care. He did not feel. He was simply only there.

And someone else was there too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @libertymalfoy; i love you, your english is way better than mine is most of the time oof  
> also @drunk_athos87; you too. i appreciate our shared longing.
> 
> stiles, barely even getting a glimpse at derek's hipbones: [ flustered gay silence ]


	9. Sacrifice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry it took so long but the gap fits with the story. it also kinda sucks cause im going through shit but i love this series and needed to update it again

"He didn't want to kill me."

His voice echoed in the small, dimly lit room, bouncing off the dull colored walls. The officer across from him nodded, chair squeaking on the ground as he pulled himself forward. He scribbled something down on the clipboard in front of him, posture indicating boredom, expression saying the opposite. Concern was laced in his features, but it was easy to ignore.

Stiles leaned back in the uncomfortable metal chair, tired eyes looking away from the man in the uniform. "He didn't want to kill me," he repeated, voice emotionless, eyes blank and guarded. "He told me that before he.. he did it." A nervous hand went up to touch at his throat, the thick white gauze wrapped carefully over the wound. It was warm, hot, and ached with every word, every swallow. "That's why I'm still here. He didn't do it deep enough, on purpose-"

"And your sure this is a man?" The officer cut him off, getting to the point. Stiles had been actively trying to avoid describing his supposed attacker. He didn't know how to do it correctly, so tears started to well up in his eyes, courtesy of the demon inside.

"I- yes. He was a man," He murmured, quieting his voice, playing the game. 

"And what did this man look like?"

Stiles's hands shook, the act continuing, developing. "I- I don't-" he breathed in shakily, setting one hand on his knee, the other coming up to wipe at his eyes. "He killed those guys, without mercy, and then- Deputy Parrish.." the scene ran through his brain like a movie, the Nogitsune's work proving itself to be incredibly useful. "I just hid in the corner. Then he came up to me, and whispered.. told me I'd be fine.." Doubling over, Stiles hid his face, feeling sobs begin to wrack his body. There was silence from the other end of the conversation, and he was about to go into another phase when the door behind him opened, his father's voice signaling a successful manipulation.

Strong arms wrapped around him, and Stiles leaned into them, the small, sane part of him relishing in the sheer comfort of an embrace, the other, larger half just satisfied because of his abilities. 

"It's okay, son," Noah's voice ran through the silent room like a knife, severing any chance the police had of interrogating him further. He was pulled to his feet and slowly led outside of the place, listening to his father's pleas to free him and smiling at the positive answers.

Soon, they were in the car. Stiles was slumped in the passenger seat, forehead pushing against the warm glass of the window. Hiding the out of place grin decorating his face.

 

He truly wasn't insane. He felt like it, but in reality, he had only just succumbed. Given up. Lost any hope he had previously managed to keep. His friends were safe; he did not matter anymore. They were silent as they ignored his suffering. The did not take the time to notice; even after being "attacked" by the "Identity", they didn't ask him how he felt, didn't even try to understand, to figure it out. They only locked him in his house, attempting to keep him safe when in fact they were doing the opposite.

_Hopeless._

Stiles sat in his room, a pocket knife in his palm. He watched it with lazy, disturbed eyes. He ran his thumb across the blade, wiping the rusty blood off the edges. Rubbing it absentmindedly on the edge of the bed sheets, ignoring the stinging from his legs.

"Hey Stiles? You alright?"

His father.

"Yeah," Stiles responded, setting the knife on his nightstand. "Why, what is it?"

"Just making sure."

And that was the only social interaction Stiles had for hours.

He sat in his bedroom, headphones in, listening to some soft, slow music. Eyelids heavy. Limbs weak. Fan set on high, the music playing incoherently in the background.

That is, until a certain someone realized their two weeks - an extra one granted for healing - were up.

_Now._ It spoke, voice massaging Stiles's fractured mind, soothing the thoughts that wouldn't go away. _We must go now._

"You're going to kill me," Stiles muttered sarcastically, sliding his hand under his pillow. "Honestly. Can't you just wait, like, another week? So we don't have to kill ourselves again?"

_We did not die; we only took a necessary risk._ The Nogitsune's voice was like it always was. Cool, sharp, uncaring. Stiles sighed, not even acknowledging that they both were referring to each other as 'we'. _But we must move, for I am growing weak once more. And without my help, you will be right, and we will be dead._

"Great, man. That's wonderful," Stiles sat up, feeling his head spin as he did so. God, was he hungry. Hungry enough to feel nauseous. "'K. Who's on the agenda today, then?" 

_The altercation with the deputy need not happen again. We must find a way to seal your identity._

"A mask? That should be easy to get. I have a lot of that stuff right in my closet," Stiles explained, standing up. His knees shook and he coughed, his vocal cords straining for a second. The Nogitsune was right; it _was_ losing power. He could feel the healing progress on his throat seem to tick back, starting to act like a normal person's wound at the two week mark. He shook his head, continuing over to the closet door. "I have contact lenses, too. We could go the extra mile."

_It would be best if we did everything to keep this a secret, Stiles._

Stiles stifled a yawn before he slowly opened the door, eyeing all the clean shirts hanging up he couldn't bring himself to put on. Under them were totes, totes filled with a bunch of prank or halloween shit he never used anymore. He got onto his knees, opening the one he was sure was filled with costume stuff. And, luckily, it was. He was greeted with the sight of a bunch of cliche horror masks, face paint, odd accessories. He sighed as he stared at the box's contents, remembering easier, better days. Before Scott was bitten, before the Alpha Pack, before the Nogitsune. It was crazy how things had changed.

Back then, he wouldn't have found it remotely easy to end a person's life.

"So what now?" Stiles asked, getting down on his knees to peer into the tote. 

_Something subtle that covers your features, and colored black, to blend in._

Immediately, Stiles spotted something that fit that exact description. He grabbed it, holding it gently in his hands. A black bandana, one that he remembered using to spray paint the side of a trashcan at school. (Don't ask.) He pulled it over his mouth and nose, tying the thinner ends around the back of his head. He stood, grabbing out his phone camera to see how it looked.

"Wow. Yep. I look like I joined some gang."

His eyes, however, were still very recognizable, and he couldn't have that. 

Walking back over to his closet, he leaned down, before spotting a hint of blue under a few masks. He reached down, digging through the costume fodder, before he pulled it out. In his messy scrawl, the box was labeled 'Contacts'.

"Score," Stiles murmured, shaking the box. The things inside bounced around, rattling and smacking the metal siding. So, flicking open the latch on the side of the container, Stiles opened it. There were a few unused contacts left, it seemed, the others dry and broken. Blue, purple, and some crazy yellow color with a pinprick hole for the pupil. The chaotic part of Stiles gravitated toward the latter, and the other couldn't argue, so he grabbed them, peeling back the seal and grabbing the thing. It stuck to his thumb as he brought it up to his eye, sticking it on and blinking until it didn't burn anymore. Rinse and repeat.

Pulling out his phone once more, Stiles brought it up to his face and smirked, expression hidden under the bandana. "Holy fuck," he whispered, feeling the Nogitsune grow as ecstatic as him, boosting his mood. "That's so cool." But, despite how it looked, he could still tell it was him. He didn't know if it was because he was just used to having his face, but he didn't want to take any chances, and neither did the demon inside of him.

"Face paint," Stiles decided aloud, nodding and moving to his closet one last time. He grabbed the first dollar store package he saw, practically ripping off the plastic to get to the small tin of black. He ran four fingers across the oily expanse, before closing his eyes and slathering it over his eyes and the bridge of his nose.

Glancing in his phone camera again, Stiles nodded. Yep. He looked like a knock off, much more emo Winter Soldier, and he was alright with that.

"God," Stiles started, tone drawling. "Now that I look like I belong in a weird Hot Topic ad, where are we going?"

He felt the Nogitsune laugh, causing heat to rise to Stiles's face, a finger twitching. _Another house near the woods,_ it explained. _The risk factors are generally low, especially for this one. It has no neighbors, and is an hours walk out of town._

"Discreet," Stiles agreed, nodding. "An hour, though? That's a lot of time for someone to, I don't know, check if I'm up here and find out I'm missing." 

_That will not happen. I will assure you._

"Alright, man. I hate to say it, but I trust you. Tell me where this house is."

 

An hour of walking sucked. It didn't help that it was only four miles out of town, not as far as Stiles would have liked. But again, if it was any farther, the walking time would have gotten much longer. So, viewing the pros and cons, Stiles preferred this place.

"Who we lookin' for?" Stiles asked, crossing his arms and stifling a yawn. It was cold for a summer's night, and the breeze was harsh on Stiles's back, threatening to force his hood down. The bandana over his face saved his nose from going numb, like it usually did, the area behind the fabric filled with his hot breath. It was nice, but he really did feel like some city thug, but for some reason living in a small town with no gangs other than an odd bunch of vaguely dangerous superhuman teenagers.

Vaguely dangerous superhuman teenagers that he was currently betraying.

Stiles shook his head and sighed, resisting the urge to rub at his eyes. He dearly wished they never found out that he was, well, killing people. 

_To be fair, Stiles, you are working with me for the sake of them. If they were really your friends, I don't think they would be bothered._

"Coming from a demon, that advice is scarily tame," Stiles quipped, blinking at the red reflector in the distance, taped to the side of a mailbox positioned crookedly next to a winding dirt road. "Is that- is that our place?"

_Yes. The driveway is quite long, but due to this, no passing cars will spot us entering._

Stiles nodded, smirking. " _Smort._ "

_Excuse me?_

Disappointed, the smirk dissipated. "Nevermind."

Passing the mailbox, Stiles caught the name plastered to the metal in thick black text. Danyon. A weird last name, one he didn't recognize at all, so that was a bit of a good sign in his book. Maybe it would lessen the remorse he felt, help him sleep at night. Maybe it would convince his subconscious to stop visiting the land by the lake, only to have honest to god conversations with the demon that was slowly killing him, it's words making him question his sanity. Everything it said was starting to make more and more sense. Stiles didn't know if that was because it was adapting to his soul or something more sinister, but whatever it was, it wasn't good. He knew for a fact that everything it told him was tainted, but it all sounded so _right_ in his mind, and he couldn't bother trying to ignore it anymore. 

_I have always made sense, Stiles,_ the Nogitsune piped up, voice smooth and crisp as always. _It is only your delusions clearing that has shown you my true rationality._

"Whatever you say," Stiles murmured, hands close to his sides, focusing on the winding trail in front of them. He saw a light in the distance, and dimly thought how much of a nuisance it must have been to walk all the way out to your mailbox. Especially if it was empty after all that hassle. The idea made him smile in amusement, imagining some middle aged man slapping the mailbox flap shut and swearing in frustration after realizing it wasn't Sunday and he had walked the quarter mile for nothing. It was a good distraction, a nice one. One that kept his mind from realizing that that middle aged man would probably be dead in his hands in under an hour.

Stiles had his eyes on the various rocks passing under his feet when his body seized and he was thrown to the side, body pushing against the back of a tree. Out of his control, he peeked around the coarse, decaying bark, spotting a woman standing about ten feet down the road, near to the opening holding the house, half obscured by dense foliage. Not even a second after he had looked, a beam of light clicked into existence and he slammed back around, breath held, completely still. In his mind, he was freaking out, but trusted the Nogitsune's abilities enough to not feel the need to slink away. 

"Who's out there?" A feminine voice called out, average in tone with a subtle irish purr. It curled her words at the edges, an aura of regal authority surrounding the noise. 

Stiles stayed in place, the Nogitsune quiet, not explaining.

After a few sickeningly quiet minutes, only filled with the soft hiss of the wind and the rustling of branches, the light flicked off. Stiles felt air return to his lungs but he did not move, still unmoving, hands against the tree.

He listened. Listened some more. Then, he heard a sigh, and footsteps getting increasingly hard to hear.

_Success._

"Is that our target?" Stiles asked once he could move his mouth again, voice low and almost inaudible. 

_Yes._

Stiles peeked around the tree, mimicking the Nogitsune, not making out anything in the dark but the back of the woman too far away for her to spot him. Then, he stepped out, sticking to the treeline as he treaded slowly and lightly toward their destination. "What's her name?" He crouched as the woman looked over her shoulder, paranoia getting the better of him. 

The Nogitsune did not respond immediately. _Her name is not important._

Rolling his eyes, Stiles insisted. "To me, it is," he explained shortly, the grass crunching underneath his feet. At the lack of a response, Stiles groaned. "Just tell me, man."

_If you wish,_ it responded, tone as dull as Stiles's. _Her name is Charlie Danyon._

"Charlie," Stiles commented, nodding, eyes narrowing as he spotted her disappointly small house. She went up the porch steps, sighing before walking in the front door, unaware of the pair watching from the shadows. "Okay. Anything more about her that I should know?"

Stiles could feel the annoyance this question gave to the demon, but he disregarded it, and the Nogitsune answered anyways. _Twenty seven, no connections to the outside world outside of education. No living family. She is studying criminal justice at a university an hour away, and plans to work with your father when she graduates._

Stiles frowned. "Does.. does he _know_ her?"

_Not remotely. She just plans to be an officer for Beacon Hills, but has no personal ties with anyone there._

Now it was Stiles's turn to not respond. He shook his head, sighing, before advancing forward. There were no windows aimed toward him, so he saw himself as safe for the moment. It wasn't until he sprinted toward her house, pushing his body against the sand colored siding, when he realized that this time they had not brought any sort of weapon at all, not even a knife. They had escaped through the recently unglued window, not able to or perhaps not remembering to track one down before they left.

"Fuck," Stiles stated, eyes going wide and breath quickening under the bandana. "Dude. The fucking-- the fucking _knife_ -"

_Not to worry!_ the demon responded somewhat cheerily, and Stiles's eyes narrowed in confusion. _The woman has many guns in her home. If we get in, we will be able to arm ourselves._

"How do we get in?" He paused. "No, no wait, _Guns?_ I thought guns were too quick for you?"

_Getting in is easy, Stiles. And we will make it slow in the end, but you must wait._

"Wait for what?"

Once again, Stiles felt the will drain out of his limbs, and the demon was back in control. He waited, viewing the world like he was simply behind a pane of glass. To his delight, they were sneaking in again; he tip toed around to the back of the house, a somewhat large window meeting his gaze before he pushed upward, finding it unlocked and unguarded.

_How do you know so much about this girl?_ Stiles asked, taking up the role of the disembodied voice, but his attempts were fruitless. The Nogitsune did not respond, only pulled them up through the opening and onto the soft carpets.

How did it know so much about Charlie Danyon, that her back window would be unlocked, that she went to university out of town, and was on her way to becoming a cop? All those facts were incredibly specific, actually. Too much to know from simply looking up her name or talking to her once. Anyways, where would that have happened? Unless Stiles was very uninformed or he hadn't been in control at the time, he didn't think he was friends with an odd, goth-looking middle aged woman who lives in a cabin off the side of a highway. Or, despite being possessed for a still undetermined amount of time, he didn't think there was enough for him to have scoped out an entire person's life.

There wasn't. There wasn't now, after the roof, or before. It was impossible with the Nogitsune stuck in his body.

So, what?

"I want to test you." It whispered, voice as quiet as physically possible.

Stiles's thoughts paused at the Nogitsune's words; test him?

_Couldn't this have been done outside?_ he thought, wary of being overheard. _But, but what do you mean, a test?_

"The mistake that occurred the night of the celebration, it was because I was in control. I did not recognize this police man, and in turn, I almost violated our contract." They sunk against the wall, out of sight of the open doorway. Each word sent a wave of paranoia over Stiles's bones, but he had to trust the demon's plan. "If you were in, as you would say, the driver's seat, none of that would have happened. To apologize, and to make sure that never happens again, from now on you will take the lives yourself, and I will only step in when necessary. This woman is your test, and the outcome will tell me whether or not you are capable enough to handle this responsibility."

Stiles blinked, and with the Nogitsune's last words the tendrils unfurled from his limbs, retreating back to their original perch over his ribcage. He stared down at his hands, eyeing the remnants of black paint decorating his skin, and curled his fingers into a familiar thumbs-up shape. The Nogitsune didn't budge back against this movement, just sat, almost completely idle, letting him control the flow.

Stiles smirked. Noice.

Unused to working his own body in a stealth situation, Stiles tried his best to tip toe toward the gun safe, shoes sinking in the carpeting. When he went to probe around for a lock, he pulled on a handle and was surprised to find it completely open. Blinking in confusion, he reached in, pulling out a sickeningly familiar gun. A service weapon, issued to cops. The same one he'd had on the roof, and the same one his father shot at him as he fled the first murder.

Stiles swallowed thickly and he reached in to take a different one, only to realize that the other pistol was already gone. He frowned, before realizing what this meant; the woman, Charlie, must've had it on her. That made this even more dangerous than it already was. Because Stiles was an idiot with little to no experience shooting anything, let alone a gun, and was about as awkward as a newborn fawn with the grace of a wounded deer. In any means, he was the complete opposite of stealthy.

He would still try, though.

He breathed in, preparing himself for whatever was to come. Then, he stepped back, and was promptly knocked out from behind.

 

 

He woke up to a flashlight blinding his eyes.

"What-" he started, voice groggy. He shook his head, attempting to turn his body to the side, only to realize that he was tied to a freaking _desk chair_. A desk chair! "What the _fuck_?" The rickety thing groaned under his meager weight and he pushed his body forward, the wheels sliding a bit at his movement. The woman in front of him took away the light, and now Stiles recognized her as Charlie.

"Who are you?" she demanded, tucking the flashlight into a loop on her belt, clicking it off. "Why are you here?"

Stiles stared at her. Something inside of him - the Nogitsune - found her incredibly familiar, almost nostalgic. The curve of her short, black dress, dark brown hair and pale face. Her almost black eyes, that defiant, almond shape. Stiles had never seen her before in his life, but somehow he knew she was left handed, knew there was a diamond tattoo behind her ear before she even turned her head. It made him feel wrong, misplaced, like they never should have met, never should have seen each other. Like the universe was being broken by the two standing face to face.

But maybe it was just his throbbing headache speaking nonsense.

"I'm, uh, not important," he responded breathlessly. She stared at him, unconvinced. "Really. I was just here to- to take something. But I'll go now."

"Bullshit!" she snapped, swinging forward. Stiles braced himself for a fist, but instead the bandana was yanked off his face, hood falling down near his neck. The only things hiding his identity gone. Exposed.

Stiles smirked, giving her his most convincing look. "I probably look crazy, right?"

This time his face _was_ met with a punch.

Eyes blurry, his vision swam for a moment, neck aching from the abrupt slap to the side. He cleared his throat, feeling blood trail down his chin from his lip. Her voice echoed in his ears, but it took a few seconds for his brain to register anything as words.

"You gonna talk now?" She hissed, adjusting the _brass fucking knuckles_ settled on her hand. He felt the familiar tingling of a bruise along his jaw, and he swallowed, nervous, head angled toward the floor. This and the ringing in his ears, however, almost distracted him from the sight of her backing up for another hit.

"Wait!" Stiles shouted, looking up, eyes wide. She paused, face caught in a snarl, thumb running over her weapon. "Wait, my name is Stiles. Stiles Stilinski." He tried to move his arms, but the ropes just rubbed against his sleeves, useless. "Hi, I'm seventeen, please don't hit me again."

This stalled her, and she held back, putting her fist back at her side. Stiles calmed, finding himself out of harm's immediate way. "Why are you in my house?" She questioned, less furious now, eyes sharp and stance defensive. Stiles's heart beat heavily in his chest, quick, but then he felt it; the tendrils uncurled and shot out, and he swore.

"No, I got this-" he began to explain, but then his consciousness was thrown backward. He felt his face shift from half-assed fear to some sort of malicious triumph. Sitting in the backseat, Stiles watched eagerly, waiting to see how the demon would get them out of this.

"Charlie," it greeted, voice bittersweet and smooth. "How have you been?"

Charlie's eyes widened in.. recognition? Confusion built up in Stiles, and in response the Nogitsune smiled, flexing its fingers against its side.

"Ooh, I didn't tell him," it hissed with a smirk, leaning forward, the ropes straining against the movement. Charlie stepped backward, shock written all over her sharp features. "Didn't tell him how I knew you, _Charlie_."

Gritting her teeth, Charlie swung again, even more force held behind her punch than before. Despite the pain that most likely would've knocked regular-Stiles unconscious, the Nogitsune just laughed, spitting the blood-rittled spittle from his mouth. 

"You know that doesn't do anything to me," he mocked, looking back up at her with crazed, determined eyes. "You're only hurting _him_."

The earlier shock was now joined with something else; anger. Like before, but different. "Let that boy go!" she demanded, voice loud, a burst of words. "Don't rope anyone else into your game, creature. I'm right here."

Fierce amusement bubbled up through Stiles's body and the Nogitsune laughed again, incredulous, hysterical, body shaking. "Wait wait wait, you think I want _you?_ " It gasped, before falling back into another fit, bending over as much as possible while tied to a chair. "Wow." He glanced back up. "You really think I came here to take you back?"

She stood still, fire still raging in her eyes. "Yes." she spat, confident posture falling down a notch. 

"Incredible," it ridiculed, grinning. "No. This vessel has been more efficient than you could ever be. Do you know how many bodies we've claimed? How many lives we ended together?"

"How many?"

The Nogitsune scoffed. "I've lost count!" It shook their head, a content sigh escaping from their lips. "This body is perfect, unlike you."

A pause. A good, long pause.

"Then why-" Charlie's voice trembled. "Why are you here?"

Pulling the last knot undone, the ropes fell loose around them, and the Nogitsune stood.

"I need to tie up some loose ends."

 

 

Stiles walked slowly through the forest. Covered in blood, he couldn't be seen along the highway anymore, otherwise somebody would assume he had done something bad. Which was the truth. But they didn't need the cops involved.

The grass was soft under his feet, making for an easy, quiet path, unlike the first night of crunching leaves and dead twigs. Summer was full of life, which would aid him in his exploits. If he didn't almost die again, and lose months where they could've been active, everything would be good.

But how could he call this good?

Stiles skinned the girl. Pulled her skin from her bones and muscle like it was nothing. And it was him, too. The Nogitsune stepped back, his excuse being Stiles had to get used to this. And he was. He was very used to it. He hated it, wished he wasn't. But it was normal to him now. And, if he was being true, something deep down-

No. No. That was just the Nogitsune, it had to be.

He flexed his hands by his sides, wiping blood on his jeans. He felt strong, empowered. Like nothing, no one could ever oppose him and win. This woman, Charlie, had given them an incredible amount of energy. It, of course, was because she was a former vessel, somehow. She had leftover kitsune energy held beneath her flesh, why they had to skin her. Drape her remains along the wall, covering every surface in a fine layer of fluids. Well, that was probably just the Nogitsune's sick dramatic flare. At first, it had almost made his vomit. But now, after he'd left, the memory didn't upset him as much. It was a bad thing, Stiles knew, but he didn't care. It just made it easier to get these things done with quicker and more efficiently.

_Stop moving._

Do you know how easy it is to snap a neck?

Stiles did.

He didn't even register he had done it. But there was a man's head in his hands. Limp, eyes open and staring blindly passed him. Flashlight laying alone on the ground.

Stiles dropped him, backing up, shocked.

_Good job. You_ are _getting a hang of this._

Why was this man out here all alone? What was he-

"He's there! Wait- what?"

Scott?

Stiles whipped around, fright lacing his features, only to meet the face of his best friend. And the claws of his best friend.

And that was the moment his simple calm was shattered.

Flying backward, Stiles's back slammed into a tree, and his eyes went blurry. Something on his front was newly wet, unlike the blood from their most recent victim. His hand came forward, and he touched it, feeling a spike of pain radiate from his torso. Nothing he hadn't felt before, but it still took his breath away.

"This is for Stiles, you fucking _sick_ bastard," Scott growled, voice primal and low. Stiles looked up, and only managed to dodge out of the way of his doom, the bark on the tree behind him flying off at Scott's claws. Blood dribbled down his chest, down his stomach to soak the waistband on his pants. From four even lines, slashed straight through the fabric of his sweatshirt.

He stared back, their eyes meeting. Scott didn't recognize him. His disguise had worked. But his best friend was furious, aiming to kill him with no hesitation. Despite being directly in harm's way, the Nogitsune would not react. It would not even chance breaking their contract, breaking this easy cycle of death and destruction he had accepted so willingly. The solution Stiles came to was simple; run. Try and outrun a werewolf, covered in blood he could track, and try to lose him.

Goddammit.

Stopping in his tracks, Stiles whipped around, closing his eyes and drawing the gun he had stolen. He aimed forward and shot, three times, right at his best friend's chest. He clenched his eyes shut, the gun shaking in his hands. He tried to disassociate; Scott would be fine. He could survive a few normal bullets. It would just slow him down, make it so Stiles could get away. It was for the better.

It was for the better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> charlie danyon only exists so i could kill her : )


	10. Serendipity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Derek, where are you, you useless wolf?"  
> the best thing I've ever heard

It made more sense for Derek to have gone with Isaac and Scott in pursuit of their suspect. That was the problem, actually; currently, instead of searching the forest for their murderer, he was wasting his time outside of a house, forced to stand stationary for hours while his packmates might have been fighting for their lives.

Derek sighed, crossing his arms and readjusting his position against the tree. He should've gone inside. He knew that. But it was late and from what he'd seen, the person he was supposed to be protecting was long asleep. He couldn't wake him. Or, in other words, he didn't _want_ to wake him. To face him. He didn't want to be here, when he could've been ending the Beacon Hills' Serial Killer's reign of terror, but he had to. He had a debt to pay. If he had kept a better eye on Stiles, he never would've been cornered by the Identity, or even taken by those assholes in the first place. He wouldn't have had to recover for months alone in a hospital, on the verge of death, only alive because of a detached promise from a madman. It was a mistake, one he would not make ever again. He would write the wrong, and make sure Stiles was safe. Which involved investigating any odd noises which might concern said human.

Odd noises he had been hearing for the past half hour.

He needed to go in there, see what was wrong. But he also didn't want Stiles to know he had been outside, waiting. Scott had made it a point that Stiles shouldn't know he was out there; the kid wasn't exactly accepting of these extra measures. He just had to go in and see if Stiles was okay, and preferably sneak out without him finding out. Simple. Anyways, he had a right to be worried; it wasn't like Stiles _hadn't_ almost died twice in barely a year.

Preparing for something he shouldn't have had to prepare for, Derek stalked forward, eyes on the front door. He quickly let himself in, the air changing from a cold, windy chill, to the warm, still atmosphere of the house. The noise he'd heard earlier was now distinguishable as quick and uncertain footsteps, pounding uncalculated back and forth, with pauses in between. The lights were off as well, and if not for the noise, he would've assumed everyone had retired for the night.

What _was_ he doing? If that was even Stiles?

A spike of uncertainty was driven into his chest, and he blinked, pushing down those feelings in favor of more rational thoughts. He shifted to the stairs, advancing quietly, quickly. He resisted the urge to curse when the top step creaked under his foot, and the mismatched stepping stopped, his own soft breathing the last audible noise left in the house.

It couldn't have been Stiles. Stiles would be sleeping, or at least laying in his bed. He didn't seem to sleep much, but he wasn't one for messing around in the middle of the night. Not that Derek knew, not after the roof. It could've been their killer; here to reclaim the life he had previously spared. Derek shook his head, staring down the hallway and looking for movement, listening for sound. He heard none, and even as he crept across the path, he couldn't make out any indication of a person being up. 

Confused, he peeked past Stiles's doorway, glaring into the dimly lit room. An old lamp was casting a dull yellow glow over the walls, pill bottle half open on it's side on the nightstand. The bed sheets were messy, blanket hanging halfway off the bed, colors morphed by the lamp's influence. But, most importantly, Stiles wasn't _in_ the bed.

Derek opened his mouth, aiming to call for Stiles despite what he had been told, before he was cut off by the familiar sound of quick footsteps and an arm wrapping around his neck. Shock brought his body into overdrive and he reached back on instinct, going to drive his elbow into his attackers face. However, the attempt was blocked; instead, he felt the grip tighten, aiming to snap-

Then, he was haphazardly released, stumbling and almost tripping over himself. 

"Shit. _Shit!_ " a voice, high strung, familiar. "Fuck, I'm so fucking sorry, oh my god!" Derek spun around, spotting Stiles, face pale and hands in his hair, freaking out a few feet away from him. "Jesus, man, I thought- you were just there, and I didn't know-- _fuck_ , man, fuck!" Derek watched with disturbed interest as Stiles became more and more panicked, chest rising and falling at an unhealthy speed. Disregarding all of this, there was something even more off than Stiles actually _attacking_ him. His jaw was mottled with soft purple bruises, and his lip was cut, bright red around the edges. 

"Stiles, calm down," Derek coaxed, holding out his hands in a friendly gesture. Stiles looked up from his frantic murmuring, eyes distraught. "What happened to your face?"

"Wh-what?" He muttered, confused, but then a realization passed over his face, and his hands went from his hair to the stark markings against his skin. "Uh, nothing, nothing important. I'm fine, I'm always fine. Are you fine? I- you know, I tried to, um, yeah. I've been practicing defense just so nothing happens again, y'know? I'm just a little paranoid, and I heard you, and you didn't.."

"I should've called out, okay? I should've called out," he soothed, taking a few steps toward the shaking boy. "Stiles, are you really okay?" He paused, blinking, before repeating his earlier question more sternly. "What happened to your face?"

Stiles paused in his fidgeting, shaking his head stiffly. He ran another hand through his hair, soft, newly washed, smelling strongly of some cheap shampoo. "I can't believe I did that to you. Jesus _christ_ , fucking-" his hands turned to fists at his sides as he chose to completely ignore the question. He covered his eyes, taking in a deep breath in some last ditch attempt to calm himself. And, miraculously, it seemed to somehow worked. "I'm so sorry. But why- why are you here?"

Disregarding how he hadn't gotten an answer and saving that talk for after Stiles calmed down, Derek responded. "It's late, and I thought someone might've broken in."

Stiles nodded, pursing his lips and shuffling his feet. "Well, it's just me. Dad's asleep and I just uh, took a shower," he took in a deep breath again, his eyes crinkling in a reaction to discomfort, pain? His hand edged at his chest, before he dropped it by his side, gaze flickering.

He was lying. Something _had_ happened.

Stiles picked up on this suspicion, and he quickly tried to normalize the situation, blinking and clearing his throat. "I'm tired, though. So. I'm really sorry, Derek, but can you- can you leave? I'll just- just go to sleep."

Stiles tried to enter, but as Derek was already standing in the room, he couldn't very well rid of him. And now, the awkward existence that was this conversation was doomed to continue. More so in Derek's favor; Stiles was, once again, hiding something. He had covered himself in some terrible smelling cologne in order to null the scents of it, it seemed. It didn't take an genius to figure out.

"What are you hiding?" He asked, aiming for a blunt, simple question. 

Stiles stared at the floor, standing near the bed, his shoulders tense. "Nothing, man. Just," he shook his head, fingers shaking by his side, a nervous twitch. "Nothing. I just want to sleep."

A dark cloud drifted over Derek's heart. Stiles stayed quiet in the moment, refusing to look at him, being stubborn, like always. It pained him to think about, to assume, but he had to. He had to make sure everything was alright, because it definitely wasn't normal to wake up at about four am, take a shower, then immediately go back to bed. Not Stiles, not now. So it was either a lie, or Derek was just unnaturally worried for no reason whatsoever. Despite his need to protect his dignity, he dearly hoped it was the latter.

"Stiles, answer me. _What_ did you do?"

Again, that paranoid twitch, an arm brushing against his side. 

"Nothing, Derek. I didn't do anything."

Derek took a step forward, wary of his friend's state of mind. "Stiles," he warned, stern but soft. Hesitantly, he reached out, to touch his shoulder, give comfort-

When his fingers were greeted with cool flesh of his friend, Stiles whipped around and grabbed his wrist, a hitch in his already shivering breath. The distinct sensation of fear and worry built up inside him, but he didn't fight the other's hand. He just stared at the front of Stiles's shirt, wondering what was lying underneath. 

A beat.

Stiles cleared his throat, releasing Derek's wrist, lingering as his fingers trailed down his hand. Derek blinked. 

"It's fine. I won't do it again." He muttered, and Derek's heart dropped into his stomach. _Not again._

" _Stiles,_ " He repeated, less of a warning now, more a hollow, saddened statement. "What did you do?"

"I took proper care of it. I'm not going to die." He inhaled shakily, his eyes hardening, cynicism soaking his tone. "Unfortunately."

The hole in Derek's chest grew, a sorrowful, melancholic feeling rushing up his veins. " _'Unfortunately'?_ "

"I just- I just tried to attack you! And I've kil- I've- I've done so many _bad_ things, Derek, you don't even know. And it's all my fault. This-" he motioned to his chest, where the cuts would undoubtedly be, another act of physical self-harm Stiles had willingly put himself through. "This isn't even anything big. That's how little things like _this_ matter to me anymore." 

"They should matter, Stiles! This isn't healthy," he explained, lowering his tone, still wary of Stiles's father's presence. "You shouldn't do this to yourself."

"This is what I get for everything I've fucked up," he hissed, voice almost a growl, gaze unsettlingly sharp. "It's my price. I deserve this, this _pain_."

" _No, you dont!_ " Something snapped in Derek's head, his heart; he found his voice raising, tone changing to something else. "You don't deserve this, Stiles, whatever you're doing to yourself. Someone like- someone like you, doesn't- wouldn't _ever_ deserve it." He found it hard to put words together, to voice whatever the hell he was feeling outward to someone so unstable. 

His shout made Stiles pause, the soft look returning to his eyes, before being coldly ripped away with a shake of the head. "Why wouldn't someone like _me_ not deserve it?" he spat back, staring straight at Derek, held back emotions swirling beneath his well-crafted mask. "You have no _idea_ , Derek, do you realize how many-"

It was like a switch flipping. Derek stalked forward, grabbing Stiles roughly by the shoulders, their gazes locking. Stiles stared back, his honey-colored eyes glistening, shock written across his features. "You don't seem to realize who you are," he whispered, feeling the sharp shoulders of his friend shiver under his fingers. "To all of us, to the pack. To _me._ I don't give a shit what that thing made you do, that wasn't your fault, and that's in the past." He felt some hopeful smile play at his lips, and he blinked. "You're an addictive person. Your smile, your laugh, your stupid little out of place jokes whenever something serious happens. You can't stay still half the time, and you flail around like some excited cat, but that's what makes you _you_ , Stiles. And we all- no, I- I love that about you."

Something passed over Stiles's face, and suddenly their faces were a lot closer than before. It took an embarrassing amount of time for Derek to even register that Scott McCall's nerdy best friend's lips were on his. Even then, it took even more time in that miniscule moment to realize the need inside of him to kiss back.

 

 

 

Stiles woke up in some blissful excuse for grogginess. His first real thought was that he had _slept_ ; not taking a quick ten minute nap forced onto him by pure exhaustion, no, actual full-blown sleep. Like, the kind of sleep where it's dark when you lay down then bright and sunny when you wake up. Hours and hours of much needed relaxation that he was utterly relishing in. Yeah, his body still ached and the animalistic slashes across his chest felt like fire, but his bed was nice and warm, covers softer than he'd ever realized before.

And the second thing he'd perceived? Yeah, that was that he wasn't the only one in bed. Before this whole mess, he would've jumped out of the blankets and slammed against the wall like a frightened cat (why was that familiar?) but now he wasn't an ignorant idiot without a filter. He just opened his eyes and registered the person in front of him. Sleeping, chest rising and falling, in bed with _him_. His heart was beating out of his chest, and he didn't blame it in any sort of way. It was one thing to have an actual living demon using your body as a tool for murder but a whole other thing to have a living breathing stranger-

Stiles's eyes stopped on the person's face, and his body stiffened. Yep. Not a stranger then. Totally not a stranger.

Just as quick as the blush rose to his face, the Nogitsune's grip shuddered, an almost nauseous feeling of annoyance sneaking up his spine. Yes, that was the thing's reaction to Derek. He knew that. Part of him wanted to hold onto the agitation to save himself from the other feelings bombarding his brain; embarrassment, infatuation, affection, pleasant surprise. How had they settled down in bed, _together?_ The last thing he remembered was, like a fucking moron, almost breaking down in Derek's arms. He had learned to mask his tears in front of his close friends, but he was still working with his words. And yes, that was what got him. Words. After thinking Scott had actually tracked him back to the house, even after the shower and the disposal of blood-stained clothes, Stiles had attacked without thinking, hands itching to go back into that familiar, soothing action, the quick and serene snap of the neck, only to stop at the last minute. He hadn't even noticed that it was Derek and _not_ Scott he was babbling to until he had heard the wolf's voice. Which was in itself very lucky. If it was Scott, he didn't know how he could explain it.

Even then, he had to trip his way through making an explanation for his fucked up everything. He still hadn't explained the face; maybe blame it on hitting himself? But that didn't make any sense at all, and he'd already played the self-harm card. If Derek ever saw the strikes across his chest, though, he'd recognize claws. Not the shameful marks on his legs, though, he truly wished those were from Scott, and not his fucked up brain subconsciously making him do fucked up things with no warning. In this situation, those weren't the problem, thankfully, nor were they even in the light. 

He had been sleeping with Derek Hale. Him, a teenager, with a slightly older guy he had been admittedly lusting after whenever he wasn't killing people. 

His life was a fucking mess.

_"And we all- no, I- I love that about you."_

It all came rushing back like he'd never forgotten it, and immediately, all his earlier woes melted.

He couldn't control being that close, stargazing into his emerald eyes, and hearing that Derek Hale liked his fucking weird ADHD awkwardness without combusting in some way. His heart had been beating out of control, the noise loud and present in his head, blood rushing past his ears. And, on a whim, he leaned in, pulse exploding and lips tingling with electricity.

He remembered feeling the flood gates break. In essence, he had began to cry as Derek actually embraced him, not backing off and being disgusted like his anxious mind had feverishly predicted. No, it was consensual. He had been graced with what he could only explain as the happiest moment of his life, followed by a few equally life-making minutes.

To put it simply, laughter. Lots of it. Stiles had genuinely laughed, albeit in the middle of endless tears, as Derek did too. Both of them, laughing, together, Stiles collapsing over the side of the bed. Falling on each other in a mess of arms and legs, giggling like unabashed school girls, being stupid.

And stupid, Stiles was fine with. It was worth the uncomfortable squirming of his demon, the whispered disagreements. For once, he just wanted to seem blissfully ignorant. Just once.

And this, yes, _this_ was blissfully ignorant. Being fully clothed in his bed with Derek Hale, his shameful fantasy come to life. The realization brought immense fear and appreciation into his mind, all mixing together into one unstable mindset.

"I'm such a fucking idiot."

At his words, Derek moved, a soft inhale coming from his sleeping form. Then, he slowly maneuvered himself to face Stiles, who was basically sitting up now. 

Groggily, the wolf spoke, voice quiet. "Stiles..?" He paused, as if finally remembering the situation as well. A quizzical look passed his face before he seemed to ignore it, focusing on the matter at hand. "What's wrong?" 

Inherently, nothing was wrong. It was admittedly quite difficult to process this completely sudden new change in life, how he was lucky enough to have any of this happen to him. The fact that he was apparently attracted to men in the first place in itself made his head spin. He had taken a huge risk in blatantly kissing someone, and he still couldn't fathom how Derek apparently liked him back. Even after he stated all Stiles's flaws and made them seem positive, it was mind boggling. All of that plus the Nogitsune's nonverbal input, it made him a complete mess of emotions. Hence the almost crying.

"Nothing, nothing's wrong, I just.." he motioned around the bed. "This is, this is _crazy_. I mean, this is too good of a thing, right? This could never happen- no, it could never happen to me." 

A sly, somewhat lazy smirk settled over Derek's face. "Can never have too much of a good thing," he settled with, forcing down a yawn. "Luckily, this isn't a dream."

The connotations of that statement made Stiles blush. "It just doesn't seem real, you know? Possible. That anyone would- that _you_ would-"

"Like you?"

Stiles swallowed, heat rising to his face. "Yeah. That you would be here like this. That you would even fucking stand me, let alone _like_ me." He looked up at Derek, wiping at his face with a resentful gaze. "I- _fuck_ , Derek, this is so weird. I'm so weird. I'm just a crazy kid with no chance-"

Derek's fingers were in his, and the earlier blushing rose to a wildfire.

"This is a chance, Stiles. Open your eyes and realize that I, no matter how _weird_ it may be, feel the same as you."

"Really?" their laced fingers felt right somehow, his own slim but strong grasp, a nervous shake to them, calmed and held down by the calloused grip of his friend. His friend? His- _more_ than friend?

_Ugh._ Stiles _hated_ awkward conversations.

"Is it weird that I- that I like you? Or um, I mean- that I like, uh, guys?" He blinked, looking away from Derek's sympathetic face. "I mean, it feels a little weird to me. A lot weird. I don't think I've- no, _no_ , I definitely have. But I've never realized it. Or noticed, really. Girls were really the only thing Scott talked about, and I liked them too, so I just kinda put all those complicated feelings at the very back of my mind just for the sake of being normal but like, totally subconsciously-"

"Do you ever shut up?" Derek commented snarkily, removing his hand from Stiles's and turning to stand up. Something in Stiles's heart crumpled at this, but he knew that this was just playful banter. He wasn't being serious.

"Honestly, I try to stay quiet," Stiles responded, slapping on a small quirk of a smile, letting a dribble of laughter dapple over his words. "But I can't when I'm, you know, flustered."

This earned an actual returned chuckle from Derek, shaking his head before pushing himself off the mattress and stretching. Again, Stiles could only look away to stop himself from further embarrassment. On one hand, he was thankful Derek was making this a little more easy to follow. Stiles was like a broken fax machine, babbling endlessly and spitting out useless information. Derek, on the other hand, was like a respectful printer. His words were clear and thought out even in the small time it took for him to speak, presented officially and politely. On most occasions. Sometimes he could be quite.. disagreeable.

Why was Stiles comparing them to office oriented machines? He had no idea. In the moment, it didn't sound crazy. But yet again, Stiles really wasn't what a normal person would consider sane anymore.

"What is this?" Stiles blurted, the words tumbling out of his mouth clumsily. He glanced up toward the older wolf, and shrunk back at the intense green gaze. The bright but soft colors were sharpened by thought, and investment. "What is, like, this? I was- I took a risk and it came out okay. More than okay. But that's for me. Are you-"

"Yes. I'm perfectly happy with this," an honest to god smile settled on the most unlikely person's face. Stiles melted. "More than happy, actually."

"So, what is this, then? We slept together, not platonically; what does that make us?"

A pause. Stiles, still half hidden by the blankets, chest beginning to sting as sleep's bliss slowly began to lift from his frame, half sitting half laying, letting himself be vulnerable for the first time in a long while. Derek Hale, having the upper ground, standing in front of the possessed human with a debated look.

"I mean, whatever you're comfortable with."

God, why was everything he said so goddamn calculated?

"I don't know- Derek, you know me I guess, you _know_ how much of a mess I am. I can't-" he swore, shaking his head. "I don't know, man, I just- I just like you. A lot. A weird amount. And I don't know how to deal with that to- to talk about it."

Derek shook his head, sighing and crossing his arms but not in an angered way, despite what the whispers inside his brain told him. The actions were more angled toward a different emotion, one he had never even noticed before. Had he been too wrapped up in himself to realize? Had Derek been going through the same emotional conflict as him? He could begin to understand how someone could ever find any aspect of him attractive, but apparently, someone had. Derek, officially.

"I- I guess we could just keep it- keep this quiet. I don't know how- how Scott would see me like this. Would see you. So we could just not tell anyone. Or have like, a real thing." Stiles realized how what he said had sounded moments after it came out of his mouth, and he turned his face quickly in Derek's direction, embarrassed blush decorating his face. "But that's- that's not what I meant. I mean like we just keep this, us, here. Alone. Safe."

Derek nodded, actually agreeing for once, and Stiles felt himself beginning to grin. "Sounds good. Safe is good, especially for you, after everything that's happened."

His smile stuttered and he stared forward, swallowing thickly. "Yeah. Yeah, safe's good."

After everything that's happened. Stiles had almost forgotten.

 

 

It was the first time Stiles had been outside unrelated to his missions. He walked next to Derek, hugging a coat to his frame and pushing the urges of the Nogitsune as deep down as they could go. Scott had his arm slung around Kira's shoulders, like he hadn't just shot him last night, while Lydia stayed chatting idly with Isaac, the unlikely pair caught deep in playful banter. Stiles was silent, too many things on his mind to let himself talk. People still glared at the thin scar across his neck, and with the new school year coming up, he was sure it was about to get a lot worse. Lydia did it the most, even though she tried to remove her gaze and apologized profusely whenever she was caught. It was no big deal; it was just another near death experience in his ever growing list and he would learn to ignore it. It made him feel very bare and vulnerable, but he could deal with it. He knew he wasn't particularly vulnerable in any sense anymore; whatever this training the Nogitsune was putting him through had crafted him into something he deep down always wanted to be. Capable, not the damsel in distress that needed saving, the weak human. The inhuman strength that ran through his veins only did half the work now. He now knew the ins and outs of the human body, how to make it twitch, how to make it crumble.

These thoughts were dangerous, he knew. His demon urged him on, but he somehow pushed that to the back of his head. He was more comfortable than he'd been in months. Maybe it was his shoulders brushing against Derek's or the tease of their hands as they walked, but something was helping him stay in control. Either that or the fact that they weren't doing anything Identity related, or at least not yet. They were literally just hanging out. Like the kids they were supposed to be. Even with a serial killer on the loose, Scott was confident that they would overpower him if they were ambushed. Which Stiles knew wouldn't happen, but it's not like he told Scott that. As much as he wanted his friends to loosen up and have some fun, he couldn't risk his cover by acting more suspicious.

He was juggling a lot of secrets. He almost feel the burdens weighing on his shoulders. Now that he and Derek were- were _something_ \- he had so much to hide.

"Hey," he finally spoke, turning toward the wolf walking idly next to him. His gaze was distracted, staring almost blankly up ahead. "What day is it?"

Derek blinked, before looking back toward Stiles. "Um, Saturday."

"No, I mean the number day."

"The 1st, then."

Stiles nodded as he processed this information. He'd have to go back to school on the 5th, barely four days in the future. This information dug a whole in his subconscious, and he swallowed, a great deal of anxiousness swelling in his system. He'd have to balance school work, his lies, and the killings. All on his one person, with the unhelpful advice of his parasite. 

Clearing his throat and still feeling the numb scratch of his healed wound, Stiles broke the tension. "Wow. Feels like nothing," he commented quietly, glancing toward the pavement underneath him. "The summer passed in the blink of an eye." He sighed and looked toward the tree standing in a brown house's yard, still green and lively. He didn't doubt that those would change soon, that they would die and float away, decorating the ground and filling the air. "Now that I think of it, it's probably because I was comatose for pretty much all of it."

"Yeah." There was no humor in his voice, only a certain despondency he had pin-pointed the night before. When they had fought. Or, more accurately, when Stiles had overreacted and almost exposed himself.

He reminded himself that his flawed move had turned out fruitful in the end. 

The silence dragged on after that, only filled with Lydia and Isaac's avid conversation. Stiles couldn't concentrate on what they were saying, and realized he had forgotten to take his pills that morning. He almost didn't notice Scott stopping in his tracks, almost running into the boy. Just the sight of his best friend made the Nogitsune curl. Not in disgust or annoyance like it did when in contact with Derek, but more so with uncertainty, and reluctance to feel that uncertain. He had no idea why Scott seemed completely unfazed, or that he hadn't even told Derek, Lydia, Isaac, or _anyone_ about his encounter with the Identity in the woods. It was like it had simply passed his mind. On the other hand, Stiles sure as hell remembered; his ribs were wrapped tightly with stark white bandages, still stained in some spots with the blood he could barely contain. Stiles's marks wouldn't be going away any time soon, and neither would the pain, but what about Scott's pain? Why was it just _nonexistent?_

Even after their shoes all but collided, and Stiles jumped back a few inches, Scott stayed the same. Like those three bullets had never even entered his body.

"Wait!" he called, causing everyone who hadn't noticed he stopped walking to pause, glancing back at their friend with interest. Scott's face lit up, and he turned around, the bunch now standing in an uneven circle on the sidewalk. "Do you think Nogitsunes can put curses on people?"

The question was so out of the blue and blunt Stiles's noticeably flinched, his muscles tensing and face paling. Derek stepped closer to him, and Stiles blinked. Almost in unison, everyone spoke, " _What?_ " Each in varying degrees of disbelief, shock, or confusion.

"Kira," Scott started, whirling around to face his girlfriend. She was the confused one. "Can they do that?" 

She glanced toward Stiles, and he cringed away, eyes flickering to the side so he couldn't read her gaze. Then, she shrugged, raising her eyebrows. "I don't think so?" she said, letting her statement hang open. "I mean, my mom never said they couldn't. But she didn't say they could either."

"What if she doesn't know? What if Stiles was a unique case?"

Isaac nodded, apparently agreeing with this idea. "Yeah, all this bad shit has been happening, ever since we defeated it." he surveyed the group, and the Nogitsune stiffened at the word defeat, anger and offense tingling up through his nerves. "What if this is the consequence?"

Stiles swallowed, again. He didn't like this. He hated it. Nausea twirled through his throat, and he blinked, keeping quiet, trying to focus on the warm body next to him.

"I guess that would make sense," Lydia commented, putting her hand to her chin. "Its powerless now, but this is revenge. A lasting effect on this land for what we've done to it."

"This bad luck would've attracted someone like our killer!" Isaac exclaimed, somehow a smile on his face, as if they'd just figured everything out. "The Nogitsune's hold is still on Stiles, and that's why he's so fucked up-"

Something snapped.

" _Shut up,_ " Stiles spat, his voice shaking. "Shut the hell up." He just wanted to forget for one moment, forget that _it_ was inside him, that he was so _fucked up_ , but no. He couldn't. He never could.

"Stiles-" Scott started, his eyes wide like he'd just remembered Stiles was there. A momentary resentment flared through his mind, but he pushed it down, telling himself it wasn't his Scott's fault. He was just some forgettable, fucked up kid who had killed his friend's first love.

"'Fucked up'?" Derek asked, his voice defensive, almost aggressive. Stiles closed his eyes and angled his face away, letting the Nogitsune aid his emotions, keeping them in check. "What should I expect that means, Isaac?"

Lydia looked toward Stiles, realization and sympathy coating her gaze. "Hey-" she began, but Stiles shook his head, breathing in deep and turning around. 

"I'm just gonna go home, okay?" he muttered, almost thankful that there was something there to keep him stable, at least visibly. "You guys have fun doing whatever you do." Then, he let himself walk. 

He could hear Derek's voice as he distanced himself. And then quick footsteps catching up with his quick pace.

Of course he'd been followed. But, when he looked up, he noticed it wasn't Scott or Lydia or even Isaac. It was, fortunately, Derek.

"I'm fine," he spoke, getting that redundant answer out of the way. His wished to tuck his hands into his pockets, his fingers cold, but couldn't find the will to do it. 

"You're not fine." A simple statement, true. Stiles sighed.

"Yeah."

"Isaac's insensitive," Derek said, his voice authoritative, like a teacher complaining about their student. "he's young and stupid, but he didn't mean anything. No matter how it sounded."

"I know, I know," Stiles agreed, tone soft. "but he's right. I am fucked up. There's no denying it."

They turned the corner and literally the exact moment they were out of sight, Derek laced his fingers in Stiles's. Immediately, his mood changed, like a light flickering on. Reluctantly, he smiled.

"Yes, you're fucked up. But you're still _you._ "

And then they kissed. Again. Sweet river waters rushing over an uncaring, desolate ocean. His pink sea from so very long ago, but better, serene, emotional.

Stiles was in love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter gave me secondhand embarrassment oof


	11. Soon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote the first part while sitting in class. It's basically my thought process but like without the blood part obviously.
> 
> ALSO sorry it looks so weird, my computer is gone and broken and I had to write this on my phone. the weird paragraphs start around after stiles gets home. I'm working on fixing it (have already fixed the stuff before stiles gets home) but it's midnight and high school is really taxing and I have to get to sleep : ) but it shall be fixed soon (Soon.)
> 
> edit: it's fixed, fucking finally

It looked like dirt, which was favorable. Stained into the thin lines of his skin, flaking off at his rough touch. The clock ticked at the back of his head, incessant, everlasting, the sound quick and rhythmic, distinguishable from the scratching of pencils on paper. His hands shook minutely along with the asinine beat, his eyes drilling holes underneath the table, at his fingers, where he held them against his leg. Rubbing them together, watching the particles fall to the smooth tiled floor. Wondering if the evidence would be hidden this time, if it was possible with him in the lead.

The air in the classroom was exceedingly dry. His mouth was sticky and the oxygen he breathed was hot, warming his nose and lips uncomfortably. It was dead silent, every inhale or breath or sniffle able to be heard by every person in the room. He did his best to keep quiet, to close his mouth and direct the least amount of attention toward himself possible, for as long as possible.

He glanced up at the clock, windows reflecting distractingly against it’s smooth glass pane. Internally expecting the device to display nothing close to what he required, he was truly surprised when his eyes were met with the wondrous time of 3:14. One individual went to zip up their binder and the chain was set off; everyone began to pack up, shoving away folders and endless papers into brightly colored cases. He himself only loosely wrapped a clean hand around the handle, staring deeply at the stark black numbers displayed before him. 

3:15.

Some people began to stand up, choosing to stay near their desks lest they disturb the teacher. Other brave, more confident ones chatted idly, words lacking the usual slow, tired tones usual students sported at school. But, due to the new year, kids were still stuck in summer, and would take awhile to learn to mutter again. The teacher sighed, the room beginning to swell with noise. Some took to counting down the clock like excited eighth graders, others now laughing, talking with their friends. He still sat, alone, staring at the clock. 

3:16.

The bell rang and like all other noises, it reverberated throughout his skull, driving the noise deep into his subconscious. He stood quickly from his chair, not bothering to push it as the sea of teenagers made their way toward the door, like mindless, caged sheep. It was a miracle he even made it out the door, one hand tucked deeply into his pocket, the other clutching his binder for dear life. His eyes searched through the dull heads for the bathroom door, different shoulders slamming into his fragile sides without even a murrow of apology. When he finally reached the restroom, he made sure to slip in subtly, stepping the corner to shorten the movement. He didn’t want anyone to see him, to have an opportunity to make connections. Inside, the air was cool, albeit moist, still managing to be a step up from the claustrophobic atmosphere of the study room. A few spare freshmen he didn’t recognize were standing by the stalls, voices childlike, high. Inside, tendrils swirled at the thought of children, happy children. He swallowed.

He stood by the sink, pretending to scroll one-handed on his phone, until they emptied out one by one. The roar of students was distant now, and he found himself feeling safe. Once out of the gazes of others, he snapped on the faucet, the liquid cold, and shoved his hand underneath. The rust red markings decorating his skin began to fade off slowly. The chill of the water was soothing, but it wasn’t good enough. It had to be gone, entirely gone.

Almost as if he had planned this from the start, he began to scrub violently at his palm. Scratching the sticky substance off, pushing its origin to the deepest annals of his mind. Back to who he knew would take care of it, the one who would wash it away better than soap could ever wish to do.

He didn’t stop scratching until every last scrap was down the drain, his flesh sore and mottled, fingers shaking from the temperature. It was soothing, though. His demon loved the cold, preferred it, loved his pain and suffering. It made the demon, it - _him_ \- strong.

Despite how much his hand hurt now.

Forgetting his backpack, Stiles Stilinski exited the bathroom into an empty hallway. A pencil rolled along the ground, either forgotten or abandoned, the tip broken and eraser missing. Idly, he pushed it with his foot, watching it turn around and slide back down the hallway, the dull noise of wood against linoleum the only noise present in the seemingly empty school.

“Stilinski! What are you still doing here?”

Stiles’s whole body seized at that voice, turning to face the Coach with wide, tense eyes. He cleared his throat, tucking his hand in his pocket, tightening his grip on his binder.

“Uh, bathroom,” he explained vaguely, voice awkward and cringey. The Nogitsune pushed his voice out, calming it for him. “I’m leaving right now.”

“You gonna make it to practice?”

Stiles swallowed, having completely forgotten about lacrosse. “No,” he shook his head, trying to avoid the other’s eyes. “I don’t think I’m going to join this year.” Eyes on the floor, Stiles refused to look at the man, clearing his throat again, feeling congested. “Sorry.” he murmured, before turning, swearing under his breath and jogging toward the exit.

Luckily, when he reached the doors, the coach had not followed him, but he still spotted him staring confusedly - worriedly? - down the hallway toward him. Intense feelings of discomfort radiated over his spine, so he stepped out, feeling the newly autumn air hit his face. Warm, but with a strong, cool breeze. He didn’t have time to take it in, however, the fact made painfully obvious when the only car in the students’ lot was shiny and big and black. The engine wasn’t even still running, which drove anxious spikes into his chest. 

_It will be okay,_ the Nogitsune purred into his ears. _He will not be angry._

“Okay,” Stiles muttered quickly, swallowing his anxieties. He steeled himself in the few moments he had, before walking as confidently as he could muster to his ride. He grasped the door handle, swinging it open and preparing himself for the absolute worst.

“Where were you?” unsurprisingly, his voice came immediately, but it was not angry like Stiles had expected. No, it was thankfully just concerned, maybe a bit annoyed as well, but the agitation wasn’t directed toward him. There was no anger in his gaze, just like the kitsune had promised.

“I dropped my stuff in the hallway,” Stiles lied, feeling comfortable in Derek’s presence. “I would’ve picked it up faster if hundreds of kids hadn’t scattered in throughout the school in under five seconds.”

His partner nodded, a short smile donning his face. “Understandable,” he responded, his worries calmed. Then, he turned the key, causing the car to rumble back to life.

Stiles leaned back in the seat, binder against his chest. He felt energized, way better than the messy, tired mess that had entered the school at the beginning of the day. It made sense, though; he _had_ killed a man who lived near the school during lunch. A quick, forty-five minutes, clean and easy, save for the splatter of red that had almost cost him everything. He knew it was gone, but he still vividly remembered the sensation of it coating his hand, the dry, crusty substance scratching together. Almost enough to still feel it.

As if to affirm that it was indeed gone, Stiles let the hand lie by itself, splaying his fingers across the middle compartment of the car, not even granting it a glance. It was gone, washed away, down the drain and never to be found. Never to be traced back to him. Never to be-

Blush rose to his face as another hand joined his. His heart skipped a beat and he stared downward, not bothering to null his body’s reaction, relishing. Inwardly, he could hear the Nogitsune scoff, but he ignored it. Apparently, this was also part of their agreement. As long as Stiles respected the thing’s passions, in turn, it would act accordingly.

Stiles was fine with that.

“How was your day?”

“Fucking boring,” Stiles admitted, allowing himself to slide back into a somewhat neutral tone, adapting to the conversation. “I hate school. Everyone’s an asshole-- not even bothering to maybe, I dunno, kick the obviously dropped items back to the idiot who dropped them.” Refer back to the lie casually: a tip given to him by the Nogitsune. They pulled out of the parking lot, and Stiles sighed, intertwining his fingers with Derek’s. “Also teachers. They all hate me, but manage to tone it down a bit until it’s literally just like, plain, tasteless sarcasm.”

“Stiles, you speak in plain, tasteless sarcasm,” Derek replied quickly, a chuckle sitting on his tongue. “That’s literally your language.”

Stiles smirked, rolling his eyes. “You’re not wrong.” The rest of the car ride was done in relative silence, with Stiles relaxing into the seat, trying not to think of the homework he would definitely not do later. Derek, his green eyes focused and thoughtful, one hand on the wheel, all the way until they got to Stiles’s house. Which wasn’t actually very far.

As soon as the engine sputtered off, Stiles let out a sigh and swung the door open. He hopped out of the seat, purposely leaving that tumor of a school supply sitting abandoned on the dashboard. He smiled at it mockingly before shutting the door, hiding the expression from Derek.

The walk up to his door was normal. Quiet, just the sounds of their feet against the pavement. But then, his partner tensed. Despite this, the older wolf still sauntered forward, entering the house before Stiles did without a word.

Stiles followed, unbothered.

When he saw what was inside, he knew he should have been bothered.

Inside, sat the pack, all stuffed tightly into his living room. This, on its own, wasn’t anything bad or special. The reason his eyes had widened exponentially was because of the sight of yet another individual; Alan Deaton, his gaze sharp and burning right through Stiles’s carefully constructed barriers.

“Stiles,” he spoke evenly, voice suave, smooth, and confident. The Nogitsune curled in side of him, seizing his muscles, a headache spontaneously erupting in his head. Anger swirled in waves inside of him, and they weren’t only from the Nogitsune. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

“Wh-” Stiles started, beginning to shrink under everyone’s eyes, _everyone’s_ ; Lydia’s, Scott’s, Isaac’s, Kira’s, and hell, even Derek’s. He looked toward the alpha, sporting his own helpless, intimidated stare. Derek seemed to get what he was asking for as he took the lead, that familiar, authoritative voice ringing against the walls.

“What is this?”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, man,” Scott began, adjusting his position next to Kira. Derek cocked his head, and Stiles felt a growing possibility for another session of butting heads. A different kind of tension than what he’d felt before began simmering in the air. “But I- I saw him. The guy. When I was patrolling. And he-”

“He shot Scott three times,” Lydia interrupted, tone vaguely annoyed. “And the dumbass didn’t bother to tell any of us.”

“You w-were shot?” Stiles gasped, barely needing to feign his shock, his fear. “You- you _saw_ him?” More manipulative tricks drifted into his brain, and he swallowed thickly, intentionally bringing attention to the pink, milky scar across his neck. “The man who- who-” he shut himself up, shaking his head and clearing his throat. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“This isn’t just any normal Beacon Hills psychopath,” Deaton explained, so calm, too calm, his movements easy and free. Their fingers itched, some primal urge digging itself into their veins. “I have reason to believe someone has once again released the Nogitsune.”

No.

Did they find him out?

Was this finding him out?

He could feel his face pale, uncertainty, anxiety, and nausea scattering up his spine, cutting at his nerves and severing his lungs. He couldn’t breathe, no coherent thoughts able to withstand the storm building in his brain. Was this it? Was Deaton going to explain, in a soft, long tone, that he knew it was Stiles once more? Inject him with that _stuff_ , watch ignorantly, not understanding that it hurt him along with his demon?

“Wh-what,” was all Stiles could muster, swallowing once more, feeling sweat grow on his brow.

The Nogitsune was enraged; the stress on his brain flipping from a headache to a migraine, slamming against the sides of his skull, like a bullet ricocheting endlessly in a metal room.

“This is a new individual. One who has no qualms with the trickster’s goal. Unlike you had, this man works in complete sync with the kitsune, a deadly force that will not hesitate to remove anything in their path, by whatever means possible.”

This brought relief but bestowed even more weight upon Stiles’s shoulders. He wanted to stop holding his breath, show his happiness that he wouldn’t have to hurt his friends, but he knew how many red flags that would bring up. So, he didn’t. Kept the act, brought his eyes to the ground, pulling all his feelings from the night on the roof and the many times before that into his mind. His remorse, his immense regret, borrowing words and recycling.

“Is this- is his my fault?” he murmured shakily, his tone becoming to defensive, morphing to his advantage. “You should’ve just- just stopped it before it split. Now how many more people have died? Because we didn’t- I didn’t let you kill it?”

“Stiles-” Scott’s voice.

Stiles shook his head, drawing his hands around his arms, hugging his sides and moving his gaze to the floor. “It’s fine, man, it’s okay. I can’t believe- I can’t believe I was right. It was never gone in the first place.” The truth felt good on his tongue, even with the altered meaning.

“Do we know it’s pattern of targets?” Derek continued, expression serious and invested.

Deaton shook his head, sighing with evident disappointment. “Nothing, they just seem to be random individuals, at least one life a week. Though, this has been more wild lately, and it seems the Nogitsune and its partner took a long break over the summer.”

Stiles swallowed, his heart feeling like it was being squeezed. The Nogitsune was panicking; they were too close to finding out. Like a caged bird, it slammed against his ribcage, warning him, telling him to flee but having enough respect not to make him run on its own. His nerves ached and his head began to pound, the warning growing, louder under Deaton’s intelligent glare-

The conversation had faded out of his ears by the time he managed to open his mouth, finding the inside dry, sticky. “I think I’m gonna go outside.” he stated, hollow, blinking toward the floor. No one seemed adamant to dissuade him, so he spun on his heel and swiftly exited the building.

His earlier energy was completely gone. Whatever that kill had earned him was well spent, reducing them to their usual strength. Which, for Stiles, was weariness, and for his demon, was the normal inhuman strength.

The sky was much darker than Stiles had remembered, and as he began to walk down the sidewalk, he pulled out his phone and realized somehow, in some way, he had been standing in front of the living room for an hour. It had felt like seconds, maybe minutes, since he had arrived home, spirits high, only to be crushed by the people who had invaded his home, his one safe space. Where was his dad? Had he allowed these random teens and weird man to just be there-

_Your father is most likely investigating the most recent of our kills._

Oh. “Makes sense,” Stiles murmured somewhat angrily, tucking the device back in his pocket without much hesitance. The air felt wonderful against his skin, the prickly cold calming both him and the Nogitsune. That as well as the simple fact they were free from anyone’s suspicious gazes, mostly that stupid fucking veterinarian, who had thwarted their brilliant plans in the first fucking place- 

Stiles stopped walking, realizing what had just passed his mind. He remembered. Twisting the sword in Scott’s stomach, the smile on his face, how powerful it made him feel, the shock radiating off his friend-

It felt good. And Deaton had ruined that moment.

Stiles’s hands turned to fists at his sides, and he found a snarl working its way onto his face. He was next. He had done enough and knew too much to be allowed to live.

“That fucking bastard is in our way, isn’t he?” Stiles spat, something in his voice new, flavorful, addicting. Yes. Tonight, they would go out, strike, make the man suffer. The Nogitsune had never liked druids anyways, and this would grant them so much power, an inexhaustible amount. Maybe now, maybe after, this, they wouldn’t have to hurt anyone else.

In that moment, standing completely still, his spine rigid, something had changed. His composure was different. Whatever influences had been lingering on the edges of his mind had finally leaked into his psyche, new, interesting, view changing.

It would all _finally_ be over, _very_ soon.

It was easy to return to his estate and claim he needed some time to think, all while feeling the sharp, prying gaze of his final target, raking down his spine and the slow healing cut on his lip. He was in thought, the gears turning, his mind too sharp to not get what was going on. If he didn’t already know, he would figure it out soon. Deaton wasn’t like his friends; unlike them, he wasn’t some stupid gullible teenager.

He was wise and experienced. He had stopped them before, and he wouldn’t hesitate to do it again.

They were still avidly discussing the shocking return of something they all thought they’d left behind, and the only one who even registered Stiles’s presence was Derek. Of course. He was the only one who noticed him anymore, acknowledged his existence, really. So, it made sense that the alpha decided to leave his conversation and follow Stiles upstairs, no matter how important the subject below was.

Entering his room, he paused, not moving to retrieve his mask and gun just yet. Derek was behind him, and Stiles couldn’t even hint at where his weapons were. He turned, letting his expression grow melancholic.

“Are you okay?”

Quick. Simple. Convincing.

“I’m fine, as fine as you can feel after being hit by a fucking truck,” Stiles explained, tone hard. He didn’t particularly like lying to Derek, but was more than willing to do so if it helped their plans. “I don’t want to think right now. That it’s back, and not.. Not gone. You know?”

Derek nodded, apparently agreeing. “But you shouldn’t worry,” he insisted, still sporting his alpha voice, the strong and confident tone Stiles found so reassuringly familiar. “We'll take care of it. The vessel doesn’t matter; I don’t care about anyone who’s completely fine with murdering a bunch of innocents.”

Stiles exhaled, gaze flickering to the floor, trying not to dwell on the connotations of that statement. Of course Derek was not fine with someone who helped kill innocents. It made sense; that was a simple thought of sound morality, what most individuals would agree on. It only hurt because that was exactly what Stiles was doing. Killing innocents. He wanted to stop, he always had. But it didn’t bother him anymore. And now, maybe after tonight…

“I guess that’s comforting,” Stiles admitted slowly, taking in a breath. Stubbornly, he added, “as comforting as it gets.”

He could feel his partner’s eye roll without even looking. “It would be really helpful if you stayed downstairs with us,” he crossed his arms, standing back by the doorway. “You know it better than anyone.”

Prickling hatred tickled up the sides of his skin, and Stiles shivered, the chill passing over his body like a tidal wave. He shook his head, dulling the orders of the kitsune inside his mind. “No thanks,” he whispered, skin itching, like insects crawling frantically underneath. “I just want to be alone for tonight.”

There was a pause.

“..okay.”

 

 

The sky was pitch black and the air was cold, new autumn leaves drifting soullessly along the breeze. The wind howled and the moon was hidden behind a cloud, cloaking the world in a soft, enveloping blanket of darkness. They moved throughout this darkness, heart beating, anxious fear and excitement settling hard on their heart.

Light from a building reflected softly on the sidewalk in the distance, a dull, white glow. This was lucky-- they had been dreading the possibility of arriving too late, missing the chance to finish this once and for all. But, it seemed luck was on their side. Slinking around the building, they reached the back door, slipping the key they stole into the lock and turning. They held their breath as light reached their eyes, ears tuned to any sound, the quiet pop of the door closing, the hiss of a faucet far to their right.

They began to sneak quietly toward the most apparent noise, breath hot behind their mask, searching, scouring for any sign of a person inside. The faucet had been left running, the water almost flowing over the metallic edges. Curiously, they reached their hand out, shutting off the bothersome thing.

And, just as they did, they heard a gun cock.

Thrown back into the spotlight, Stiles regained full control of his movements. He let his hands drift upward in a mock surrender, fingers stretched loosely in his black gloves, an odd satisfaction lingering in his chest from the thought that his kitsune trusted him.

“It’s you, isn’t it, Stiles?” came the voice of his target, that sure tone still not wavered, remaining ever so confident. Stiles scowled, agitated.

“It’s always been me,” Stiles responded somewhat boredly, straightening his shoulders. He breathed out a sigh, moving his feet slowly, pivoting with as minimal movement as possible.

“Don’t move!” the druid commanded fiercely, but that only paused him for a moment, wary of getting shot, before disobeying. “Why are you here?”

He continued to turn, before facing the veterinarian, seeing his wild expression in the man’s eyes.

They were much closer than he had previously anticipated; just a few, short feet apart. He was hit with deja vu, but it wasn’t the same; this time, the gun was in the other’s hand.

“You know, I knew you’d realize first,” Stiles explained, trying to refrain his voice from morphing into a hiss. “They couldn’t bare to think I could have done this; hell, I couldn’t even at first. But you’re different. You don’t.. you don’t _know_ me. Not like they do.” He shook his head. “It was so obvious. I was so scared they would figure it out, but I had forgotten about you. You’re smart. Too smart.”

“Stiles,” Deaton warned, but Stiles scoffed, cutting him off.

“You wanted to know why I’m here?” he baited, a smirk settled on his pale face, miniscule facial scars glinting in the harsh fluorescent lighting. “I don’t know why you would ask that question. The answer is obvious.”

“You plan to kill me?” the druid stated, simply. Stiles nodded.

“Yep. And don’t think your stupid fucking bullet is gonna stop me.” Throwing his hands to his sides, Stiles ducked, holding his breath in hopes the bullet wouldn’t hit. He slipped his hand into his waistband and ripped out his own pistol, ears ringing as another’s went on, but it didn’t hit him. He had to be quick; ducking a few feet to his right, he advanced, too quick for the man to react.

Guns _were_ too quick. Him and his demon both agreed on that. So, it was only a shot to the leg that  
threw Deaton down, his gun clattering out of his hands. Stiles’s grin grew, and from his left pocket, he withdrew a jagged knife, throwing his body over the veterinarian’s.

“Stiles- _stop--_ ” the druid gasped, but Stiles let out a laugh, hysterical. He slammed the thick blade down in the man’s chest, once, twice, three times, blood welling up, soaking his clothing, splattering his face, decorating the linoleum, dancing in the air, flecking his teeth.

“You can’t tell _anyone_ now! The end of your life will spare many others, I promise, _druid!_ -”

He stuck the knife in for the fourth time, hearing the sound of the entrance door being thrown open. For a moment, he smelled his own blood, felt his own tears, felt the stinging on his arms, but then- It faded. The only thing that mattered was beneath him.

“ _Holy fuck-!_ ”

Stiles ripped the knife out, Deaton growing weak under his legs. He glanced over his shoulder.

Expecting useless policemen, probably alerted by the shots, Stiles’s heart dropped into his stomach and practically stopped beating; instead of two easy kills, there stood three werewolves and a kitsune, furious and shocked at the scene in front of them.

Shit. _Shit_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soon.


	12. Stiles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "You are the cold inescapable proof  
> You’re the evil, the way in the life and the truth  
> You’re revival beginning and you’re genocide  
> And I watch in wonder.."

_Run._

_Just run._

The wind howled in his ears and his limbs screamed. He barely registered what he was doing, caught on the colors flying passed his vision. They hinted at houses and lights and cars but never truly formed, ripped away too soon to see. His consciousness was flashing in and out, from an fast-approaching forest bathed in the dull glow of the moon, to the lake in his mind, the waters deadly still, frozen, cracking, crumbling-

He had to lose them. He had to, otherwise he- he’d-

The forest grew around him. His eyes were wide and he thought quickly, improvising, panic lacing his every move, no time left to think or ponder, just to go, to escape, to delay the inevitable, the inescapable-

His fingers itched and his head ached, begging him to stop, to give up, but he couldn’t. He would keep running until his legs gave out, until he couldn’t breathe any longer. That was what he promised himself, but of course, of _fucking_ course nothing could go how he wished. It only took a few precious seconds for everything to fuck itself up, like it always did. A tall, yellowing oak tree grew in the distance, and he had been planning to dash out of the way at the last moment, dodging with accuracy and grace. But, instead of possibly getting a little more space between him and his pursuers, strong arms managed to secure themselves around his middle, quelling his speed and tackling him to the ground. Like a last slap to the face, his head collided with the musty-smelling mush of dead leaves and brittle twigs, nose shoved deep into the mess, suffocating. The weight of his attacker pressed down hard on his chest, crushing his lungs, but despite this, he managed to stay still, quiet, praying that they wouldn’t recognize his heavy breathing.

_Get up!_

Arms tingling, he felt his body grow limp, slack in his pursuer’s arms. His mind clicked, and he realized what would happen before it happened; initially confused by this assumed loss of consciousness, the person he assumed was either Derek or Scott loosened their grip, ready to capture him again, but failed to do so before he zipped to the side and out of harm’s way.

He was back in control of his own body. Like an idiot, he stood there, his gaze locked in Scott’s. There was no recognition in his friend’s eyes, only bitter hatred, indignation, and stubborn determination. A year ago, this look would’ve gotten him fired up as well, ready to face whatever monster had decided to mess with their town. But now, it struck genuine terror into his heart; this time, he was the monster.

Again, his only instinct was to run.

Beginning to turn, he expected their tiresome game of cat and mouse to continue for hours until someone, be it him or his pursuers, finally crumbled. But, that was not what he was met with. His eyes widened with shock as, before he could even take a step, claws buried themselves in his back, screams rippling up from his spine as he was thrust back against the ground. Fire licked it’s way across his skin, and he knew enough basic anatomy to realize vital nerves were being severed. A cry tried to force its way out of his throat but he held it in, lungs aching, threatening to burst from this unexpected exertion. 

“ _Hell yeah!_ ”

The triumphant cry caught Stiles off guard. He inhaled shakily, moved to try and push himself off the ground, only for a boot to stomp down on his neck. Any plans he had to breathe were immediately thrown out the window. His eyes were obscured by thick grass blades, but he could still hear clearly, despite the rapid thumping of blood rushing past his ears.

“What happened to Deaton?” Derek questioned, tone hard, serious. Anger swirled up through Stiles’s constricting chest at the name.

“Kira’s got it covered,” It was Isaac's voice; he had been the one to attack him, the one with his foot on his neck. Stiles sputtered, even angrier, trying to reach it and push it off, but he couldn’t maneuver himself correct enough to even try. The werewolf shifted his weight, pushing harder on Stiles’s neck, black spots popping into his vision. “I followed your scent-” he scoffed, excited. “Glad I did.”

Stiles reached and almost found purchase on Isaac’s leg, only to feel the movement rustle the punctures in his back. Tears filled his eyes, and the response to his muffled pain was a quick, held-back sputter of a laugh. The boot was lifted from his neck and a hand grabbed roughly at the fabric in between his shoulder blades, hoisting him up from the ground. He gasped in air, desperately, feeling his lungs ache from the sudden intake.

“So, we gonna kill it?”

Tears pooled past his waterline and trailed down his cheeks, soaking into the dark fabric of his makeshift mask.

_They cannot kill us, Stiles._

A burst of adrenaline filled his weary body and he ripped away, legs almost numb, an odd tingling sensation filling the limbs. He heard Isaac move and before he knew it, he felt skin and cloth rip at his hips, blood splattering against a nearby tree. He stumbled forward, leaning against the rough bark, eyes wide and wild and scared.

He opened his mouth, trying to speak, to give up, but he was cut off by another four-finger slash tear through his skin. He spat, time going too fast, too fast to catch up with. His knees shook, ready to collapse, and he staggered away, facing his friends, his enemies, the ones who wanted to _kill_ him.

Derek came in from the side and Stiles had enough control of his useless limbs to jump away, slamming his side against an old pine. His injuries yowled in response to the impulsive action, but the Nogitsune qualled the incredible pain, letting him focus on- on fighting? Or getting away?

_We must get aw-_

Isaac jumped from out of nowhere, an animalistic growl emanating from his lips, the vengeful anger in the air palpable. Once again, he tried to speak, to reach up and remove his mask, but he was too late. The werewolf seized him by the side, claws digging deep into his chest, driving up his body and over the collarbone. Blood flew up and spattered Stiles’s face, and the same rage began to boil inside himself, enough to throw the boy off of him before he could do anymore damage.

The force of the throw sent him off balance, and he stumbled, another slash raking up his ribs. His breaths came in fast and quick, chest heaving and wounds spouting crimson. He couldn’t hurt them- he couldn’t cause them harm, that why he did all of this, he wouldn’t throw it away now.

So, surrounded, Stiles only tried to dodge. Unfortunately, when faced with three decently trained supernatural creatures, dodging never worked. He had never forgotten how horrible that serrated knife on his arms felt, the burn, the hiss of nerves and cells and tissues, crying for him to stop, to find relief. That’s how wolf claws felt, and he couldn’t stop it. Every second, every way he turned, he was hit, scratched, flesh torn apart at every opportunity. A gash in his stomach, another slit down his spine, a nick of three up his neck and over his chin, the cut meeting the bone of his jaw. 

Scott, usually so level-headed, was engulfed in passion, determined on this gruesome task. Six lacerations in the chest, force reaching Stiles’s lungs, already filling with foamy blood.

Derek. He was.. beyond angry. Beyond passionate. He made sure to hit into him with as much force as possible, knocking him around like an insolent rodent, like those two jocks from the party, slamming his fist against his face more than enough times. He landed a quick cut through his neck, not deep enough to kill, supposed payback. If only it was as simple as that.

Isaac was snarling. He had loved Allison. Maybe even more than anyone like Scott ever hoped to. Stiles knew that, and so did his demon. It was a powerful move, to eliminate her. If only it had ever foresaw the consequences of that action. The boy’s lover was taken from him, forever. Isaac was a simple guy. The actions he now took made complete sense with this context.

It was odd, to see- no, to _feel_ something foreign was inside of you. He only looked down, blood in his eyes, blurring the confusing in front of him. Wood the color of a rabbit’s fur, drenched with red and dirt, ripping out from his skin. He wanted to vomit at the way his insides swirled in twisted anticipation, at the rips of pale flesh sticking to the edge of the branch. 

Everything was coated in red. The forest floor was soaked in it, his clothes, his shoes, his friends. It was smeared across his skin, hiding the dappled freckles on his face, the water trickling out of his eyes, the hopelessness in his expression, both unsurprised and shocked at this outcome.

The stick was ripped out from behind, but he didn’t feel pain. He didn’t feel anything.

He fell.

His body slammed against the ground, head lolling and his vision swirling, colors melting, merging, a wall, a window, a glance into an indecipherable scene. A cough rattled through his ribcage, something warm and wet splattering the fabric over his mouth, fabric that didn’t matter anymore. Fabric that constricted his breathing, the blood gurgling from his throat, the words he needed to scream-

He reached up, ripping it off his face.

Sounds were muddled. Like he was underwater.

_How could you be so stupid?_

Disappointment. 

Howls of victory cut off, replaced with a quick, sullen silence. The trees swayed like wheat in an evening’s breeze. The muted greens and browns and blues all dissolved and grew repeatedly, the light of the moon releasing from the clouds, shining a dull, ignorant glow over everything around them.

Next, came different kinds of howls.

Footsteps approached him fast and someone knelt next to him, grabbing his shoulders with a gentle touch, soft, kind. Blood trailed from his mouth and nose, lips parted slightly, croaks of near silent breathing echoing from within. He couldn’t feel his legs, couldn’t feel his eyes, couldn’t feel his tongue-

“Oh no, oh _fuck-_ ”

The words struck him like a car, and suddenly he could see, could hear again. The whistling of the wind, his own ragged breaths, leaves crinkling and people talking. Talking, shouting, gaping. He couldn’t- no, he could. They were trying to- get- get his-

“I can’t feel my legs,” Stiles whispered, shifting his head, trying to get a clear view of the person over him. Sharp green eyes, black hair-

“ _Shit,_ ” he hissed, seeing that Derek, of all people, was in utter disbelief, leaning over him and looking on with horror and guilt at the mutilation they caused. They _knew_ now; they saw him, in pieces on the ground, the monster, their enemy. His lips quivered and he opened his mouth, trying to explain himself, to justify his actions. “I didn’t- I wanted-”

“St-Stiles- listen to my voice, okay?” Scott was hovering over him, from blurry, fear replacing the vengeful glare from earlier. He tried to tilt his head toward his friend, to get a better picture, but as he did it was like someone had stabbed him in the brain, the back of his neck, the top of his spinal cord. His chest burned, heart feeling like it was being squeezed, lungs contracting painfully. He swallowed, breaths shallow and croaking, listening, flexing his hands against the leaf littered ground. “We’re gonna get you outta here, okay? We’re gonna bring you to the-”

“N-no, no, you can’t, not the hospital, not anywhere,” he struggled out, eyelids heavy. His vision, previously becoming clearer, was now returning to that dull state, but darker, unstable. He knew, deep down, what was happening. His demon was panicked, but he, no, he wasn’t. “You can’t. Th- this is it. This is where I stop.”

“Stiles, you can’t, _please_ -”

“I’m sorry. I- I c-can’t do this anymore, not to anyone, not to you,” His words were choked, sobs unsteady, each painful inhale like a knife to the chest. “I didn’t- I don’t want to hurt you. Ever again.”

“Then why the fuck did you do it?”

Isaac, standing behind the two, seemed shocked, but not remotely surprised. Stiles couldn’t even look, but he knew that same vindictive, bitter anger sat idle on his features, even when he was on the ground, bleeding, consciousness swaying like wheat in the wind. Impossibly, the last bit of anger bubbled up through Stiles, knowing that in Isaac’s eyes, he had always been the enemy.

“For _you,_ ” Stiles stated simply, his own stubborn bitterness rearing its head. “We- it couldn’t hurt any of you. As long as I helped it hurt others.” He turned toward Derek, unable to distinguish the relieved expression on his face, hidden beneath the blood and muck. “Now, I’m- I’m gonna _finally_ be done. It’ll be better wh-when- e-everyone will be safe. This pain is a blessing. One last time, and now it a-actually matters.” A smile settled on his face, an empty warmth enveloping his heart. “A fulfilling end.”

Scott shook his head adamantly, brown eyes both warm and sad, like the melancholy of a cozy home with a painfully empty seat at the dinner table. “No, it’s not the end, please. You gotta stay with us.”

“I can’t,” Stiles spoke, the soft grin growing across his face one last time. The struggle to keep his eyes open was proving too arduous, and his usual hummingbird heartbeat was slow, sluggish, fading away with the blood draining onto the crinkled leaves below. The void was inviting him, warmer than Scott’s eyes, more solicitous than Derek’s. He found a laugh dying on his tongue, drifting out of his mouth like a last breath. “I deserved this. All of it, b-but-”

Derek’s fingers were intertwined with his, bloody black gloves tight against paling skin. Everything was moving and mixing around, like a saturation filter being rapidly adjusted, negatives to positives, dark to light, 1977 to Mayfair. “I’m sorry,” he finished, words slurred, mind moving like it was submerged in glue. The darkness around the edges of his vision refused to back away, eating up at the light, at the colors, that chocolate brown gaze, the hand in his, the tears turning pink against the blood it trailed throughout. Stiles hummed, drifting to that glorious pink ocean, the sun shining softly against the peach waves. Allison sitting against the soft white sand, the sun on her face, and Aiden, laughing at something she’d said. Maybe Charlie sitting under the shade of a black umbrella, and Terrence chasing around the two boys from the party. Then, the old woman playing fetch with her dog, and Deputy Parrish standing over all of them, watching over their world. 

He sighed, his last exhale, forever dreaming of their end.

 

 

October 5th, 2018, 4:32 pm.

A polished mahogany casket shone against the early autumn daylight, the shine distracting. Quickly, it faded out from behind the shade of an oak tree, lowered into a desolate trench. A narrow grave cast a final shadow, a final ending, words and names carved delicately into the marble surface.

He refused to read it.

His last friend stood next to him, dressed in his best suit, face unreadable. His girlfriend, the kitsune, was beside him, a black dress that tapered at the ankles blowing around in the harsh wind, their arms interlocked. Both silent, resilient. He was much the same, but so was everyone. Everyone except the father, struggling to hold back his emotions, eyes held tightly to the coffin with a woman keeping him in check. She would not look at the grave, nor the casket, her eyes only on her son and the man in her arms. It was quiet, save for the stubborn sniffling of a grieving man. 

He couldn’t stay.

Hesitantly, he turned, trailing down the trodden path without a word. In the direction of the gate, his car, an escape. The quiet embrace of death was one he could do without, having seen it so many times in his life already. This was just another bump in the road. One he would get over. Like the house in the woods, burned, reduced to ashen wood and disfigured photos, it would just be a sore memory to shove to the back of his mind. Another burden to bare for the years to come.

They’d killed him. Ended his life without a moment of hesitation. Only for all the regret and realization to befall them as the supposed creature reached up and ripped the bloodied mask off its face, revealing the one he had been sure was finally resting, alone and safe in his bed.

 

“I’m sorry,” Stiles whispered, his lips numb, voice quiet and eyes only held open a crack. Derek clutched tightly to the worn winter glove intertwined between his fingers, his lungs not working, hot tears welling silently in his eyes. Some sort of vague desperation clung to his throat as he felt, refusing to believe, the hand in his falling limp. As a relieved, cursory breath drifted soullessly into the frigid air, and as those sharp honey eyes lost their sardonic flare, turning lifeless, empty, gone.

The silence hung on. A deep, primal anger began to build up inside of him; quick flashes of memory racing by. Isaac, backing off from the fight with a rueful smile on his face, snapping a branch from the low-hanging trees overhead. Approaching quickly, thrusting his arm out with intrusive intention, unfazed by the blood that splattered out forward. Like something out of a horror movie.

Unaware of having even done it, he was suddenly face to face with Isaac, holding him tightly against a tree with anger boiling in his veins. Isaac squirmed, his eyes wide, still instinctively afraid of his alpha. 

“Let him _go_ , Derek,” Came Scott’s voice, sullen, choked. “This isn’t going to do anything, change anything. Let him go.”

Stubbornly, he released him, finding his previous anger sizzling out like a forgotten bonfire. He exhaled sharply, feeling unfinished, cut off, standing and facing Isaac with an obdurate expression. Reluctant to turn back around, to see what they’d done.

There was a pause, a gasp of silence, before Scott spoke up again, voice barely distinguishable from the soft blow of the wind. 

“He’s dead.”

He had already known, but now, as it was said, the reality quickly set in. _He _was dead. _They_ had killed him. __

__“No,” he found himself whispering, before shaking his head and shoving all those irritable feelings backward. Apparently he wasn't alone in that sense; the sound of Scott McCall beginning to cry was one Derek had never wanted to hear. They were alphas; headstrong, strong-willed, able to carry the weight of the whole pack. But now.._ _

__“Scott, I’m- I’m sorry,” Isaac blurted, blue eyes trained on the pale, unmoving body of their pack-mate. Scott’s best friend. Derek’s- his-_ _

__“We have to take him to his father,” He declared woefully, clearing his throat. “Leave him there. We can’t let anyone find out what- what he’s done. What we’ve done.” He stood still, breathing deeply, before turning back around. Scott was leaned over Stiles’s body, tears streaming down his face and back shaking with sobs, fists curled in the torn, bloodied fabric of his best friend’s sweatshirt. Directing his gaze anywhere but the blank expression of the boy’s head, his torn skin and copious wounds. “Scott,” he soothed, trying to calm his voice, crouching down near the broken figure with his own stumble to his words. “Come on. We have to go.”_ _

__“I c-can’t- I can’t c-carry him,” Scott stuttered, sniffling and wiping his eyes, almost embarrassed at this show of vulnerability. He tilted his head up. “Isaac, c-could you-”_ _

__“No,” Isaac stated simply, crossing his arms. “I don’t want to be anymore involved in this.”_ _

__“Oh, did you want to be involved when you _killed_ him?” Derek hissed, anger beginning to flare back up. Scott flashed him and a look and he shook his head and balled his fists, but ended up taking the responsibility for himself. He reluctantly returned to the boy's side, looping his arms under his fragile frame, feeling his rapidly cooling skin, sharp edged bones and tattered clothing. Blood dripped from the body as he stood, splattering onto the leaves below. _ _

__He wasn’t supposed to look peaceful._ _

__As they walked, dejected, mournful and dismal, he examined Stiles’s features. The small white scars on the edges of his face, glinting in the light of the moon, evidence of fights before that Derek never took the time to investigate. His still-busted lip, deep maroon cutting through the pale red, and his empty, vacant eyes, staring through the trees they passed. Eyes that were once the color of the sun shining through a glass of dark wine, now dull, simply brown and expressionless. Emotionless._ _

__When the sheriff found his body, lying in a pool of blood in his kitchen, he screamed and screamed, desperately carrying the frozen, decaying body all the way to the hospital, a hysterical mess. Calls were made, and some found themselves needing to act surprised at the news, others breaking down, despite hearing the banshee's scream late in the dead of night. The Identity was dead, even if no one would ever know. This would simply be remembered as the Identity’s last killing, nothing more, nothing less. Just a fixed mistake by a relentless killer, a forgotten corpse to bury alone._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "In between muffled tears and painful cries, Scott made out the black form of a small fly, crawling unsteadily out of the still lips of his best friend. This was almost enough to make him pause, but he only watched as it tumbled onto the forest floor, back glinting purple in the doleful moonlight. Knowing deep inside what this _thing_ was, he reached out a hand, hitting his fist against the ground, softly, but enough, enough to crush the fly, ending the real monster's life once and for all. Reminding himself of what they'd done, a deep pang of guilt stabbed itself into his chest and he doubled over, feeling another sob wrack his exhausted body."
> 
> And that's it, boys! I'm finally finished with this huge fic! I'm so sorry for ending it like this, but a little heads up, keep your eyes open for another installment in the The Long-Term Effects of Possession series. it might not be everyone's cup of tea but it will most likely be a sequel for this, and very far from the canon, basically just expanding this AU I've accidentally created.
> 
> Lots of love,  
> Dissonance


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